


A Day Or Forever

by ThePraxianWeasleyGeek



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6060078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/pseuds/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Beauty and the Beast retelling featuring a lost city, a stranded sanitation worker, and a Beast who's scarred both inside and out. Tale as old as time, indeed - neither of them are sure how this is supposed to go, and there's other parties at work who'd prefer the course of love to run as rocky as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Barely Even Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, kind of not - I've toyed with the idea of a Cygate/BatB crossover before, but it was only after #47/#48, and my subsequent (short lived) desire to see coma patient Tailgate woken by True Love's Kiss that the idea gained any real mileage. I'm pleased with the plan I have so far, though, so we'll see where this goes!

They had caught the perpetrator, but at what cost?

Astronomical, he knew, was the answer. Everything was back where it should be, and peace had been restored... within a town doomed by more than the actions of a thief.

But the thief had been the catalyst, and that thief now knelt before him, defiantly matching his gaze. Silently daring him to speak.

"All of this is your fault."

_I know._

He hadn't really been talking to the thief, he realised, but still the thief answered.

"Sure, you keep telling yourself that. But I told _you_ , I didn't"-

"You were found with the evidence."

"I don't know how I got"-

"I don't believe you!" the standing mech snarled.

He wanted to. But there had to be a scapegoat, or their whole situation would only get worse. Nobody else could know the full extent of what had happened.

Some things were worth more than a friendship.

Some were even worth more than an Amica Endura.

"You're making a mistake."

"I don't think so," the prisoner's captor replied. "My mistake was trusting you, evidently. I certainly won't do it again."

It was strange how hurt the thief managed to look, all things considered. Much as the other mech wanted to think he had erred somewhere, the evidence was entirely conclusive. His friend had betrayed him, and this blatant denial only added to the sting.

He raised his voice, so that everyone in the hall could hear.

"You claim to have no memory of the theft, even though you were caught red-handed. Nobody had seen you for hours prior to the incident"-

"I already said, I thought something was"-

" _Enough!_ You have reason to resent me, I know that, though I'd thought I had your forgiveness. Clearly, I was mistaken. You stole they Key, and it's your fault that we're trapped down here."

He met the thief's gaze, and realised they both knew who the liar really was. But it was too late now; he'd passed judgement, and that judgement had been witnessed.

"You know what? Fine!" the thief snapped, struggling against the hold of the guards who held him down. "I stole your precious Key, is that what you want me to say? Will that make you happy? Will that fix this mess?"

His captor struck him. The thief reeled, and when he recovered, he laughed. He laughed long, and harsh, and humourless, until his former Amica itched to hit him again.

"So," the thief asked, presently. "What's the punishment for treason?"


	2. I: Walking On Thin Ground

The city of Lower Tetrahex sits just below Cybertron's equator; and just outside a ring of foothills and peaks that form one end of the Manganese mountain range. It has long been remarked by newcomers that such a placement seems a little odd - surely, they say, it would have been better for the founders of the town to build inside the sheltering embrace of the mountain ridge? Indeed, there is a sizeable, flat patch of land stretching over this very spot. Why did nobody think to use that?

The citizens shake their heads, and explain that the ground out there is fragile and unstable. Not at all suited for building upon.

Besides, they counter, invoking ages-old local wisdom of the kind with both its feet planted in folklore.

That land belongs to Upper Tetrahex.

* * *

 "But there _is_ no Upper Tetrahex!"

"Not now, there isn't," the minibot on the other barstool replied sagely. "But way back in the Golden Age, there used to be. Everyone round here knows that."

"Local legend, huh?" Tailgate asked, swirling the straw round in his energon cube. It was just standard grade, even though they served stuff much fancier; but he'd only arrived in Lower Tetrahex around noon, and knowing nothing about the city meant a beeline for the first semi-respectable establishment once he got hungry.

His companion made a noise of protest.

"Hey, first off - I wasn't born around here, so I don't even count as Tetrahexian, and I still believe it. And second, I've got clips of footage from the place itself. I can show you, if you need convincing." He paused, regarding the little waste disposal thoughtfully. "Where are you staying, while you're here?"

"Dunno. I figured I'd ask if there's any rooms free upstairs in this place. I should really be gone already - I've got a placement in the mountains, but I missed the shuttle out there this morning. They're not running another one for a while, right?"

"Yeah, it'll be a few days at least; nobody's ever bothered having a proper timetable set up," the black and white mech said. "But then, you don't get many people heading out that way. What kind of placement have you got - is it one of the research facilities?"

"Yep. I think it's pretty remote, too, so it's goodbye civilization until my job's done."

"Well, I'd hate for your last taste of civilization to be a room here." The other minibot waved the bartender over, in pursuit of a refill. "How about staying with me and my Conjunx? We've got a spare room, and we're not expecting visitors any time in the near future."

Tailgate was a little startled by such an abrupt offer.

"Seriously? I've not even told you my name yet! I mean, it's kind of you to offer, but for all you know I could be a... I could be the Tetrahex Ripper, or something."

" _Are_ you the Tetrahex Ripper?"

"Well obviously not, but"-

"'Cause it'd be kinda cool if you were. He vanished years ago, an interview after all this time would be great."

"... You said you had an Endura, right?"

"Yes?"

"How have they not died of spark failure by this point?"

Tailgate's potential host snickered. "Domey says the exact same thing at least once a week. Anyway, you had a point about the names. I'm Rewind."

"Tailgate. I just might take you up on that offer, now."

* * *

Rewind and his Conjunx owned a modest apartment right on the divide between city and suburb. It was, Rewind said, a monument to compromise.

"I love being at the centre of things - I'm an archivist, it's my job to be there when important stuff's happening. But Domey's a mnemosurgeon, and his work takes it out of him. He prefers quiet when he comes home. So!" Rewind spread his arms as he and Tailgate ascended the stairs to the flat. "We live here, right on the edge; and neither of us are completely happy, but that's what you get when you fulfil the Conjunx Ritus."

"Don't you get a bit more out of it than that?"

"Well yeah, but we're in public."

Tailgate couldn't help laughing at that, shaking his head a little as he followed Rewind to the door. The datastick was surprisingly open, considering he was speaking to a mech he'd only just met. Tailgate didn't know many others like him - though that might just have been down to his job. Waste disposal wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs in the first place, and his colleagues were never particularly cheery when it came to their profession.

Rewind stood aside to usher Tailgate into the apartment, calling into its depths: "Domey, Tailgate's here! The guy I messaged you about?"

An indistinct reply issued from the next room over. Rewind huffed in exasperation and shut the door, tilting his helm towards the couch in the centre of the living area.

"Sit down, if you want," he said. "I did ask Domey to make the spare room ready, but Adaptus knows if he got round to it."

Tailgate moved hesitantly over to the sofa, but before he could sit down a tall, masked mech ambled through a doorway to the left. He was carrying a crate of cleaning supplies.

"Hi. Tailgate, right? I'm Chromedome."

"That's me." Tailgate's visor brightened in greeting, and he reached forwards to shake the hand that Chromedome offered. "Thanks for, um, inviting me 'round."

"For going along with Rewind's latest spur-of-the-moment idea, you mean?" the taller 'bot replied - but there was amusement in his voice. "I'm kidding. We're glad to help out; it's gotta suck, being stranded here when you don't know the area."

Once again, as he laughed with Chromedome, Tailgate was struck and almost astounded by the easy kindness of these mechs. It had been a long time since he'd been properly welcome anywhere.

Nobody really bothered making maintenance 'bots feel comfortable.

"Domey, I've got one last person to see about that compilation," Rewind cut in at that moment. "I'll be back in a megacycle. Tailgate - _don't_ let him talk you into helping with the cleaning, he'll try and foist it all off on you."

Tailgate nodded, suddenly a bit more sobered up. Was _that_ why Chromedome had agreed to Rewind bringing a guest home? Because of Tailgate's job?

As the door clicked shut, the blue minibot noticed that Chromedome had his head tilted sideways.

"You're a waste disposal 'bot?"

"That's what it says on the arm," said Tailgate, resigned.

"Oh. I won't ask you to help with cleaning up, then - you must be kinda sick of that."

* * *

"This is supposed to be Upper Tetrahex, then?" Tailgate asked, visor narrowed critically. The video before him was grainy and marred by static; he could maybe make out the shape of some slender turrets in the background, but the rest was too dark to show much detail.

"Supposed to be?!" Rewind clutched at his spark, dramatically offended, and the projection wobbled. "Do you take me for a shoddy archivist? One who doesn't fact-check?"

"I take you for an archivist who bought 'genuine sparkeater footage' off a drunk in a dive bar." Despite being half-asleep, Chromedome still managed to execute air quotes - though he didn't bother lifting his helm from the arm of the couch.

"That wasn't official!" his Conjunx protested. "Just a hobby. I like cryptids and things," Rewind explained to Tailgate, "and _yes, Domey, before you say anything_ , I also like legends about lost bits of history. But Upper Tetrahex isn't a legend - there are records of it really existing."

"No footage, though," Chromedome said. "I know you like to believe there is, but none of it's been verified in all the time since the city vanished."

"You keep saying 'vanished'," Tailgate cut in. "That makes it sound like you don't know what happened. But if you know it was there, why does nobody know where it went?" He twisted round to look at Chromedome - all three of them had started the evening sat on the couch and chairs, but as the minibots grew more engrossed in discussing Rewind's collection, they'd migrated to the floor. The mnemosurgeon didn't seem to mind. He was stretched out and sleepy and seemed a little bored with their current line of conversation. But he also had the more objective stance on the issue.

"Honestly, some people doubt it really existed"-

"Filthy unbelievers," Rewind muttered.

-"but there's a pretty simple explanation for where it went, if there ever was an Upper Tetrahex. The ground up to the north's really thin and unstable, so if you built on it you'd kinda expect a cave-in at some point."

"Rewind told me about that," Tailgate nodded. "Is it really so bad? I was thinking about maybe driving over that way tomorrow, to get to my placement quicker. Since the shuttles are unreliable."

Rewind sucked in a breath, and Chromedome's visor flickered.

"I wouldn't," the archivist said. "Even if Upper Tetrahex wasn't a thing, there's been bots gone missing that way before."

"You're sure?" Tailgate was suddenly much less so, in regards to his plan - but he was tempted to stick with it anyway. A good first impression would be vital on this placement; if he did well he might be looking at a promotion. Punctuality was certainly one way to help with that impression. Rewind had said the next shuttle would be 'a few days', but that could mean anything up to a week... which sparked a panic in Tailgate's mind. If he signed in a week late, he might not even get to keep the job, let alone getting promoted!

Screwing this up could keep him stuck in low-level sanitation work for ages.

"It's best not to risk it," Chromedome said. "Besides, you're welcome to stay with us for as long as you need."

Privately filing the risk as still potentially worth it, Tailgate moved to change the subject.

"So, what's the big deal with this lost city, anyway? It got built on shaky ground, it collapsed - that's not really legend material."

"See, Domey?" Rewind sighed. "You're corrupting him already. There's way more to it than just a bit of bad planning," the other minibot said to Tailgate. "The way the story goes, there's a different reason for the town disappearing."

"The story?"

"Well, more like legend. _Not_ just local, though. Want to hear?"

"Please," Tailgate replied. Chromedome groaned.

"How many people have you told this to, now?"

"If you're so bored, go to sleep," Rewind told his Conjunx. "Haven't you got an early appointment tomorrow, anyway?"

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder." The mnemosurgeon peeled himself off the couch and mooched towards the berthrooms. "'Night, love."

"'Night, Domey."

Tailgate watched him go, thoughtful.

"... How did you two meet, anyway? Sorry if that's too"-

"No, it's fine," Rewind replied. "He, uh... found me, while I was looking for someone else. It took us a while to get to this point, actually, but that's mostly 'cause we were both really awkward about it."

"So you've been together for a pretty long time, then."

"Not for ages, but yeah." Rewind laughed softly as a thought seemed to occur to him. "We met after the Functionists fell, at any rate - and it's a good thing we did, or we might've wound up in trouble. I'm an old Disposable Class, see." He rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing. "I still sometimes feel like there's older mechs round here who disapprove of us."

"I don't know why you'd bother with them, if that's true. They're... they're just stuck in the past."

Regretting that he'd caused such a reflection, Tailgate steered the conversation into safer waters again.

"Anyway, speaking of the past - you were gonna tell me about Upper Tetrahex?"

"Oh, yeah." The archivist straightened up a little, deactivating his camera and turning to face Tailgate. Now, the minibots had no light but the soft glow of a street lamp seeping through the window. Tailgate rested his elbows on his crossed legs and his chin in his hands, and Rewind began to spin his tale.

"It was millions of years ago, when the town vanished. There's no record of the exact date, but there's definitely mechs alive today who were there at the time it happened. You'd think that'd mean someone saw what caused it, right?" Tailgate nodded.

"But nobody did. Not even anyone in this place. It was there one moment, and the next it was like the town had never existed."

"So nobody saw it sink?"

" _If_ that's what happened," Rewind admonished. "See, there's another theory. Upper Tetrahex and Lower Tetrahex were once, more or less, the same city. It was just kinda... split. Divided into two districts: the workers and the labourers, in the lower city, and the ruling classes in the upper. Once that part went the workers had to set up their own government, and that's what we've got today; but when the north district was still around you had the Lord of Tetrahex in charge. His palace was right in the centre of the upper town."

"Is that what the towers were, on the video?" Tailgate jerked his head towards the wall where the projection had played.

"Possibly. We don't really know what any of it looked like, although there's written accounts of the palace being 'a huge, glittering confection of glass'... or something like that, I don't remember the exact quote," Rewind said. "But the thing Upper Tetrahex was most renowned for was the festivals and parties that the Lord held, almost every night. You'd get people travelling from all over Cybertron to attend - we even know that there were guests from other city states who were there when the place went down."

"'We'?"

"Other mechs who're interested in what happened; there's a few of us. The funny thing about the parties, though - the Lord of Tetrahex at the time was known for being kinda severe and reclusive, and people hardly ever saw him at the events. So none of us are sure why he even bothered hosting them."

"Maybe he just liked seeing everyone else enjoy themselves."

"Some people think the opposite, you know. There's theories he lured those guys there deliberately, to trap them. He could've made the town disappear somehow - teleported it, maybe, or used a spacebridge. There's lots of theories about where he'd have taken them."

"That's kinda judgemental," Tailgate protested.

"You might not think that once you hear the rest," came the archivist's reply. "Because Domey was right, there's no confirmed footage from Upper Tetrahex - but there are recordings that we think originate there. Including a couple _supposedly_ from just before the disappearance. One mentions a theft of some kind. The other one mentions the Lord; it's hard to make out exactly what's said, but you definitely hear the words _'he's done something'_. And then - _'trapped'_."

* * *

 

The story Rewind had told him was still fresh in Tailgate's mind when he left the apartment next morning. It was an interesting idea, definitely - but he wasn't sure if he believed it, what with how much relied on speculation.

Unfortunately, the one part of the legend that he'd rather wasn't true happened to be the one irrefutable fact. His plan to drive up to the Manganese Mountains wasn't looking too plausible with what he'd heard about the terrain.

Then he got to the shuttle station, and saw the sign in the window, and changed his mind once more.

_Delays expected to Manganese shuttle service: approx 10 days._

Ten days! If he kept his new employers waiting that long, he'd probably be getting the next shuttle alongside his own replacement.

There was nobody around, upon his return to the flat. Tailgate left a letter on a datapad, thanking them for their hospitality, and downloaded a transfer of credits onto the device. He left the 'pad on the arm of the couch, for Rewind or Chromedome to find when they got home, and set out again.

This time, instead of going a few streets west to the station, he headed due north. The architecture got older the longer he travelled, and the buildings' upkeep got shoddier; Tailgate assumed that this was the original part of Lower Tetrahex. As the place expanded, clearly the location of the city's hub had moved further south.

A couple of passersby turned to watch the minibot's rather determined progress, but he doubted anyone could guess exactly what he was on course for. They probably didn't think anyone would be that stupid.

Well, Tailgate wasn't stupid either. He was just desperate.

The houses finally thinned, and he could see the fragile plateau that bridged the gap between city and mountains stretching away in front of him. Even from here, the scribbly web of cracks across its surface was clearly defined - Tailgate realised Rewind hadn't been kidding about how treacherous the terrain was. He gulped.

Maybe if he stuck to the edges, he'd be safe? He had the whole day ahead of him for his journey, so he could afford to take it slow and travel the longer route; and it didn't matter really if it took him till sundown to reach the facility. Two days late was better than ten days.

All this deliberation was stalling, really, Tailgate realised - with a mental shake of his head, he transformed and drove off towards his destination.

The ground felt stable enough under his tyres, this close to the city. Seeing the Manganese Mountains looming dead ahead of him, the minibot peeled off to the side; aiming instead for the cliffs at the start of the ring that enclosed the plateau. Those got a bit of a wary eyeballing - Tailgate had considered trekking to his placement on foot, but he didn't fancy getting lost in the mountains. At least this way he had a clear view of where he was headed: the gap between two foothills where, he'd learned at the station, he would find the main road that connected all but the most remote Manganese outposts.

Tailgate slowed to a crawl as the cliffs grew larger, not wanting fall victim to a cave-in because he hadn't spotted the clues in time. He drove on, slowly, in the shrinking shadow of the mountains as the sun climbed higher overhead. This wasn't so hard after all - he just had to check his speed, and keep an eye out for especially big cracks or crumbly-looking pieces of ground.

So focused was he on the floor before him, that he didn't notice the change in the terrain high above.

Tailgate gave a small hum of frustration as his wheels skidded on a patch of gravel. He needed to be watching for hazards, not worrying about driving over rough ground! The minibot braked - carefully - and took a rest to scan for damage. There was nothing drastic yet, but he was still surrounded by rubble; if his journey continued like this then he wouldn't be in great shape when he arrived.

Still, arriving in the first place was the goal here. His undercarriage would have to take the hit.

His engine revved as he powered back up again - but even as Tailgate set off, the rumbling seemed to continue. Puzzled, he cruised to a stop once more.

A trickle of gravel skidded past his tyres, followed by a hail of larger rocks. Tailgate glanced upwards with some trepidation.

_Landslide!_

For a moment, that was all he could think as the wave of debris surged down the cliff. Then survival instincts kicked in - he booted his engine up and reversed in a jagged line, fishtailing when a boulder came rolling towards him. The ground juddered up and down as it passed.

Tailgate swung around, turning back for the cliff; only to see the landslide still advancing. It wasn't just the odd chunk of rock anymore: a whole spill of broken-off cliff tumbled down the mountain, crashing loud as an army's thundering charge.

And it was headed right for him.

With a shriek, the minibot spun his tyres frantically, turning back to face out across the plain and gunning his engine. He stalled.

The second try sent him careering forwards, almost out of control - but finally getting ahead of the landslide. Every plate he drove across wobbled, and soon his erratic course had taken him far from the base of the cliffs. Suddenly, Tailgate felt something splinter beneath a front wheel.

As the ground lurched he pushed his speed even higher, praying that he could race the cave-in back to the edge. For a moment, it seemed he might win. Tailgate drew a wide arc in the dust and bombed towards the cliff, tyres screeching against bone-dry rock. There was loud, brittle _crack_ behind him but he put it out of his mind - he'd seen this in movies before, he could make it, even if he had to transform at the last second and grab the ledge like the actors always did...

The ground opened up beneath him.

Tailgate could feel the space gaping wide below, like a terrible, vast maw. The shock knocked a scream from him but he mustered the strength to transform as he plummeted, stretching out a hand towards the ledge that was already high above his head.

For a moment, he could almost imagine he'd stopped falling. This couldn't be right - the surface was right there! He couldn't have missed it, people never missed it; they always latched on with their fingertips and then climbed to safety!

Then, Tailgate slammed into a wall of rubble. The landslide had poured into the gap he'd opened, and the minibot gave a choked, startled cry as gravel washed over his head.

It was dragging him along, sinuous and unyielding, down into the black.

Tailgate was tumbled over and over with the other bits of detritus, his flailing doing nothing to halt his journey - any handhold he managed to grab slid away the next second and sent him skidding. He was screaming and sobbing and he didn't know why; nobody would hear him this far out and deep underground.

His helm rebounded against a rock. Tailgate's vision fritzed once, and then he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too tired to say much here, but comments about how this is shaping up would be greatly appreciated!


	3. II: Crash Landing

_"Domey - look at this."_

_"Hm?"_

_"I... I think it's from Tailgate."_

_"Wait, what? Isn't he here? With you?"_

_"I haven't seen him all day - he went to the station, but I came home a couple of times and he still wasn't back. And then I found this."_

_"Here, let me see."_

_"Sure, hang on..."_

_"... Oh no."_

_"He_ wouldn't _."_

_"He has. I think."_

_"Well, do you think he made it!? Should we call the enforcers? Do we go look for him?"_

_"Calm... calm down. He told you which outpost hired him, right?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"So call them. Ask if he arrived."_

_"Good idea. Hang on."_

"Hello? Manganese outpost Altihex-Theta?"

_"Hi - I have a friend who's got a job placement with you? I'm just checking that he reached you okay; he set off this morning. He's a sanitation... waste disposal worker. Name of"-_

"Yes, we had a new cleaning mech arrive this afternoon."

_"Oh, thank Adaptus."_

"Would you like me to pass a message along? I'm afraid I must ask you not to contact him again, though; we have to conserve energy out here, so calls should be urgent matters only."

_"No, I understand. Just... tell him good luck. And that I hope he gets that promotion."_

"Certainly. Will that be all?"

_"Yeah, that's all. Thanks for your help."_

_"He's okay, then?"_

_"Looks like it. Primus, I was really worried there. Considering the horror stories you hear about the plateau..."_

* * *

Tailgate onlined feeling like utter slag.

He gave a crackly, staticky groan and tried to push himself upright - only to be stopped by the weight of rocks on his chest. With a huff, the minibot slumped back against the cave floor.

He should count himself lucky, really, he supposed. The landslide had hurled him out towards its edge; which he knew because he wasn't currently crushed to death beneath several tonnes of rubble. Beyond that, and beyond the paltry blue glow of his visor, he couldn't see or determine anything.

His movements were almost listless as he reached up to start moving rocks away from his body. At least if he had use of his legs, he'd be better able to assess his surroundings. Gravel and dust trickled down his chassis and into his seams as he worked, but he kept at it; shoving at the rubble blindly until the weight on his chest began to lessen.

Eventually, he was able to sit upright and clear the worst of it off his legs. Grunting, Tailgate braced his hands against the ground and dragged himself backwards, causing another miniature landslide as his feet slid free. He rolled over, pushed himself onto all fours, and attempted to stand.

His legs gave way beneath him, dumping him face-first on the floor of the cavern.

Tailgate groaned, unable to bring himself to move again for... a few moments? A few cycles?

He realised, suddenly, that his chronometer was offline.

An attempt to reactivate it yielded no result - he must have damaged it when he fell. Trembling ever so slightly, Tailgate dealt a cautious mental prod to his internal diagnostics; more than a little afraid of what else he'd find.

... And heaved a sigh of relief when nothing life-threatening responded. His plating was riddled with cuts and dents and scrapes - all pinging him incessantly to be smoothed over - but with any luck he would live a good while longer, in the absence of serious internal damage.

Provided he could somehow reach the surface again.

Which was looking unlikely, given what the diagnostic was saying about his legs.

The minibot groaned again in frustration, arms still spread wide against the ground, and turned his helm to the side purely to thunk it back down again. His lower legs were completely shot: the wires and relays had given up under the battering force of the landslide. The only reason he wasn't in pain right now was because his internal repairs had shut off all receptors below his knees. So the report told him; and so, he realised, he had known ever since he woke up and felt the strange numbness where his shins should be.

The only way he'd get anywhere now was by dragging himself along. Transforming was out of the question for a climb back up to the plateau.

Tailgate lifted an arm to push himself off the floor again - and froze.

In the space between the rock and the crook of his elbow was a triangle of soft light.

It was weak and bluish-white, but not the blue of Tailgate's optics. This was something different; the minibot raised his arm fully off the floor for a clearer view and followed the light's trail, to a narrow fissure in the rock.

Intrigued to say the least, Tailgate painstakingly dragged himself closer.

The gap was small - but so was Tailgate. Huffing and grunting, he wriggled through it; the passage wasn't that long, and he could tell by the brighter light at the other end that it opened onto a larger space.

About three quarters of the way down, he smacked his head on a jutting length of pipe. Even in the meagre light, years of working in waste disposal let him identify it.

_A sluice pipe? All the way down here!?_

Perhaps he'd stumbled on an old mineshaft, or something.

Regardless of its origin, however, the pipe presented Tailgate with a new opportunity. With some awkward squirming he was able to reach his backpack tool kit, groping around until his fingers found the familiar shape of a blowtorch.

That wasn't technically regulation, but all the sanitation workers carried them - it wasn't uncommon for traces of metal and slag to solidify inside waste pipes, and a quick blast from a torch on low heat was normally enough to clear the blockage. This time, Tailgate opened the tool up to its highest setting.

It was a matter of minutes (or so Tailgate assumed, his chronometer still being inactive) before the buried end of the pipe gave way under the heat and dropped with a clatter. One end of it was slightly bent round, but the other was flat enough to rest on the floor; and in that moment Tailgate had a hastily-improvised crutch.

Gripping tight to the top of the pipe, the minibot dragged himself onto his pedes. He couldn't feel the rock under his feet as he struggled to steady himself - but he could move his legs as a whole. Tailgate leaned heavily on the makeshift cane he'd fashioned and began to shuffle along the passage with a slow, lurching gait.

He emerged into a much wider, rounded tunnel - overhead, the glow that had lured him here in the first place revealed itself as a narrow, flickering strip light, hanging down from the ceiling. About ten paces from where Tailgate stood, the tunnel was banded by a wide ring of metal - and set into that ring was...

"... A road sign?"

The plaque was a little scuffed around the edges, but still easy to read. One arrow pointed down the passage, claiming to lead to a 'Courtyard'. The other, aimed in the opposite direction, read 'Lower Tetrahex'.

"You're kidding me," Tailgate whispered, gaping at the sign. He suddenly had a much better idea of where he was.

If his suspicion was correct, nothing of use lay in the Lower Tetrahex direction. Instead, he hobbled off towards the signposted courtyard, soon arriving at a fork.

There were no signposts here. Tutting at the display of shoddy road planning, Tailgate peered down both passages before him in turn. If he squinted, the one on his right looked as though it might just lead to a yet wider space. Maybe that was where the sign had been pointing?

Tailgate decided to chance it. Still half-dragging himself along with the pipe, and occasionally using the wall for extra support, he made his ungainly way down the new tunnel. He'd been right about one thing, at least - his journey didn't last long, and it ended abruptly, inside a cavern so large that he almost couldn't see the ceiling. But it certainly wasn't a courtyard.

There were clusters of strange, glowing crystals scattered about on the floor as far as Tailgate could see, shrinking to starry pinpricks further out into the darkness. Their light illuminated the viscous sheen of a nearby oil pool. Tailgate shuffled past it and came upon another pool almost immediately - was this some kind of reservoir?

It was hard to get a clear answer just by looking; the cave being so dim even with the crystals' glow. He could hear the faint _slosh_ of oil deeper into the cavern if he strained, though, and as he continued further inside his pedes occasionally caught in sticky, half-dried puddles around the edges of the pools.

At least, he assumed they were sticky. He still couldn't feel anything, but it took some force to pull his foot free whenever one landed in a spill.

It was as he battled with one such predicament that he spotted movement at a nearby pool. A tall, gangling shape was unfolding itself from a seat at the oil's edge, and stretching - a groan and a grunt of satisfaction as joints clicked into place drifted back towards Tailgate.

That had to be a mech of some sort. The minibot gaped, amazed that anyone was still alive down here after so long.

The mech finished their stretches and turned away from the pool. There was a flash of light that might have been optics, before they swung round and ambled off away from where Tailgate stood.

"... Hey!" the minibot called out, almost tripping himself up, as he hurried after the mech as best he could. " _Hey!_ Can you help me? I'm- I'm kinda lost!"

There was another glint of an optic before the 'bot appeared to dismiss him - making a sharp left, towards a spill of syrupy golden light that bloomed suddenly out of the darkness. Tailgate continued his pursuit, pausing only momentarily for a rest; against the gigantic stalagmites that had blocked that light up till now.

He watched as the mech's silhouette - slender, stick-thin and awkward - retreated down a new tunnel, its powerful glow framing them like a halo.

"Hey!" Tailgate tried again. "Do you know the way to the Courtyard!?"

This time, the mech flat-out ignored him.

"Well frag you, then," the minibot muttered, leaning back onto his cane and slowly following. Having a guide of some sort beat stumbling around those oil pools.

As he was led, he felt a faint crawl of static inch its way down from his knees - it looked like some of his sensors were coming back online. Tailgate wasn't sure if that was a good thing. The readouts were still insisting that his legs were pretty slagged, and he'd take difficulty walking over not being able to walk at all from the pain.

By the time he looked up from his own diagnostics, the mech he'd been following had vanished; and Tailgate was standing stranded on the edge of the biggest cave he'd seen yet. On ground level the space was well-lit, but as the minibot traced the curve of the walls with his optics he found that they vanished long before any kind of roof suggested itself. The ceiling was lost somewhere up in the vast gloom at the top of the cavern - punctuated here and there by mysterious little spots of light, like floating lanterns.

These lights weren't as organic-looking as the ones in the oil cave: they were bright and golden and somehow more deliberate. For a moment, Tailgate wondered if someone really had hung lamps up there among the stalactites.

Then he registered the shapes stretching between the ground and the roof.

Perhaps _recognised_ would be a better term - Tailgate had seen them before. These were the towers from Rewind's video, he was sure of it.

They weren't quite as flimsy-looking as they'd seemed on the film; perhaps because of the way the cave walls cradled them, as though the rock had grown around these mech-made structures like something organic. Even the tower dead ahead of him, though it stood away from the walls, was supported by fingers of stone sprouting out of the ground.

That just seemed... off, somehow. Rock didn't bend like that of its own free will, no matter how long these towers had been buried.

So what had _made_ it bend?

Tailgate got the sense that things didn't exactly follow normal rules down here. If he was right in thinking where _down here_ was, nobody should still be alive in these caves. Yet that gangling mech by the oil pools proved otherwise.

 _Assuming that really was a mech,_ whispered a voice in the back of his processor.

The minibot squashed that voice down into the same corner as his HUD readouts. Perhaps there were 'bots in these caverns who'd reprogrammed themselves to live on less. Perhaps someone had uncovered an underground energon deposit. Maybe they'd somehow evolved, or mutated, to consume other types of fuel.

... Maybe that wasn't the best line of thought to follow - it conjured up images of scary, subterranean, half-organic mechs.

Which in turn made him want to get out of this cave. The towers all had skirts of shadow gathered about them, and Tailgate's fear was telling him that anything could be hiding in their folds. Watching him.

Nobody seemed to be at home, but the minibot knew if someone crash-landed in _his_ house he certainly wouldn't approach them.

Except to make them leave.

The minibot picked up his shuffling pace, peering through the lantern glare and the patches of gloom to search for a way out of this cave. He wasn't sure what he'd want it to lead to. Possibly just a nice, tucked-away space where he could rest and let himself repair; somewhere to hide until he was in better shape to face whatever lived down here.

It felt as though the towers were scrutinising his progress, as he wove between them - tripping now and then, when an unfeeling foot caught on the uneven floor. They knew he was an intruder.

Tailgate wondered if there was actually anyone up in those floating-lantern windows, staring down at the stranger who'd limped into their midst. Discussing what to do with him, maybe, or planning an attack. If he thought too hard about it, he could almost hear faint whispering.

It was with no small measure of relief that he spotted yet another tunnel - leading, he presumed, to more of this eerie sunken city.

Based on that assumption, Tailgate was therefore quite surprised at where he found himself, once he'd left the looming towers far behind.

Little bright, round lamps dotted the path before him, spilling their light like tiny suns - but it wasn't buildings that they illuminated. Instead, the minibot found himself squinting at a track that twisted between stalagmites and crystal growths and mineral spires.

A thin wind whistled between the crystals, setting them to ringing hollowly; Tailgate wondered where it was blowing from if they were so deep underground. Perhaps there was another route to the surface around here somewhere.

... And if there was, it surely meant that he was alone. Nobody would want to stay in this place if they had an escape; Tailgate certainly didn't.

That mech had probably just been some sort of hallucination, along with the whispering in the towers.

Along with the music...

The wind was bringing a melody with it now, as it swept past Tailgate - a bright little tune, simple and elegant, that set his fingers tapping on his cane almost unconsciously. It wormed its way into the minibot's head and seemed to swell once it settled there, drowning out the updates from his HUD and even the very breeze it'd traveled on; eclipsing them, like a supernova of sound.

Tailgate couldn't think around it. The music was all-encompassing, smothering: it demanded to be heard.

Not just heard, but listened to.

It wanted Tailgate to... forget? To disregard the world around him.

 _Just for a moment,_ the melody whispered.

 _Please,_ came the harmony, chiming in. _Free yourself. It won't last long._

Tailgate's consciousness didn't - or couldn't - object, and the music hit a crescendo inside his head. At its climax it crashed like a wave, retreating hurriedly and leaving a fuzz of white noise behind; a quick shake of his helm dispelled that.

It took a moment for him to readjust his optics to the light in the cavern again - at some point, the sensors had shut off. A while ago, or perhaps only for a second.

... What on Cybertron had caused that, anyway? Tailgate certainly hadn't authorised it!

As his mind cleared a little more, the minibot's HUD flashed up several angry, red warnings about the state of his legs. His internal diagnostics were _not_ happy about what had just transpired, whatever that might've been. Tailgate felt as though he ought to know, but he couldn't for the life of him find the right memory file; and even as he searched, the reason for his requiring it had come to dance out of his grasp.

How long had he been stood in this cave, for the sensors in his legs to be screaming at him so insistently?

None of the scans he ran would give him a straight answer. It was as though his own body didn't know what had happened to it.

But it did know that it was tired.

Tailgate was leaning far more heavily on his cane than he'd thought, he noticed suddenly. A dull throbbing had taken up residence in his lower legs, and there was a tense band of exhaustion buzzing behind his optics that seemed to have come on all at once. Like an ambush.

His body wanted recharge, and didn't much care how it got that, which struck Tailgate as odd - hadn't he been asleep not too long ago? Or at the very least, unconscious.

Perhaps more time had passed than he realised. And there was a spot under that overhanging crystal formation, just off the path, that looked nice and safe and hidden... the perfect place to rest.

He'd wanted somewhere to rest before, hadn't he? At one point?

He certainly wanted it now. Closing his CPU to any more painful, confusing deliberation, Tailgate dropped the cane to the ground and crawled into the gap that he'd spotted. It was cramped and smelled strongly of sulphur - but he knew if there really was anyone down here, they'd have a job locating him while he slept. He wasn't about to be rudely woken by that mech, or the whisperers, or whoever had been playing that...

That...

... He couldn't for the life of him remember what he'd been about to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than anticipated - sorry about that. I'd actually aimed to get Tailgate further along in his journey this chapter, but then he insisted on wandering off to exploreand I couldn't really stop him; so you'll get the rest of his expedition next time. Hope you guys enjoyed it, regardless!


	4. III: Gatecrashing

_"Hey, Domey - remember Tailgate?"_

* * *

This time when Tailgate woke up, there was - blessedly - no painful onslaught from his sensors awaiting him. His hiding spot still stank of sulphur, though, and for a moment that smell was all he could register; it fogged his mind and blocked him from taking in the rest of his surroundings in any detail. The sensation was strangely familiar. He wasn't sure why.

The fog cleared once he rolled over, and stuck his head out from under the crystal growth.

It was strange, staring up at the ceiling of the cavern - everything was just as dark and indistinct and eerily-lit as it had been when he'd fallen asleep, as though no time had passed at all. Tailgate knew from how well-rested he felt that he must have been in recharge for a while, though; even with his chronometer still offline.

His legs had gone numb again. The minibot supposed that sleep had given his self-repair protocols enough energy to dull the pain for him once more, for which he was grateful.

He still had to make sense of this place before he could even think about finding help, if it was going to be offered - much as he doubted that. None of that would be possible if his sensors were online and complaining.

With that in mind...

Tailgate's movements were jerky and stiff as he dragged himself into a more-or-less upright position; and he wobbled rather violently when his cane slipped on a patch of rough ground. Once that ordeal was over, though, he felt safe in saying that he'd gotten the worst of the cramps and aches out of his joints. Sleeping squashed up under a sulphur-scented crystal was apparently worse for the health than he'd thought.

He vaguely hoped any signs of civilisation he might find included oil baths - not that a sanitation worker could afford that sort of thing. Perhaps he could present himself as a charity case?

The minibot shook his head to focus himself again. He still needed proof that the mech he'd seen wasn't just a trick of the light, or a vision of some kind; let alone looking for more of them.

He might not even want to _find_ more of them, depending on what the truth turned out to be.

But he wasn't going to get any answers just standing around in this quiet cave corner. Gingerly (he'd strayed off the path, and the way back looked positively littered with crystal debris), Tailgate took a few steps forward - and promptly skidded on a loose rock just lying in wait for his unsuspecting foot.

His arms flew out as he crashed down again, sending his makeshift cane clattering off into a nearby crystal bed. There was a sharp _snap_ somewhere behind him.

Tailgate winced - half at the pain of his landing, half at the noise. Crystal gardens were an expensive extravagance, both to have in the first place and to maintain; he didn't want to think about how many shanix worth of damage he'd just caused.

... Maybe if he got rid of the evidence?

With some difficulty and a lot of cursing (he was back to dragging himself along again), Tailgate managed to locate his implement of destruction - it was lying innocently across the nearby path, half buried beneath another crystal formation. That one growth had taken virtually all of the damage: shattered bits of mineral fanned out loosely from the point of impact like dozens of tiny arrows.

_Look here, likely insanely wealthy owner! Look what the insolent disposal 'bot did to us!_

Perhaps if he got out of here quickly, it'd just be passed off as decay? There wasn't anything huge; no completely damning evidence...

Naturally, it was only then that Tailgate spotted the larger, snapped-off chunk.

The minibot groaned, as he wrested his cane away from its chosen burial spot. He'd have to get rid of that bit, or the owner would know their garden had been vandalised - if there were any more oil pools about, he supposed he could drop it in.

He scooped up the broken crystal, and scrambled awkwardly upright using his free hand and crutch; already scanning for a suitable disposal point. Nothing presented itself immediately, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be found out anyway. Anyone could pass by him here while he searched - and it was dark enough that he might not even know he'd been caught.

If he came clean and confessed, it might persuade the owner to go easier on him, right?

He didn't know who the hell he was asking; there might not even _be_ an owner to exact vengeance, by now.

With that thought, Tailgate was able to push his panic aside at last. Shaking his head a little to dismiss the last vestiges of worry, he shuffled off down the path - squinting into the darkness now and again. Whether that was to keep an eye out for signs of life or just to admire the gardens, even he wasn't sure.

As the track wound between crystal beds and rock formations it passed through near-total darkness; then into little round halos of light, from the scattered lanterns; and then right back again - the contrast made Tailgate's vision pop, as spots and static swam across his optic feed from rapid resetting. The lamps couldn't illuminate even half of what the minibot would've liked to see, and yet somehow, the glare they produced felt harsher than if these gardens had been bathed in sunlight.

In a bid to avoid damaging his optics so much, Tailgate turned his attention away from the strobes of light that his journey was subjecting him to; and focused it instead on the crystal he held cradled against his chassis.

The minibot was glad he'd decided not to throw it away, in the end - he'd hate for something like this to be destroyed, even if it was technically broken. His prize, such as it was, maybe wouldn't look very pretty to the owner of the carefully-cultivated crystal gardens: it was jagged and lopsided and a little scraped on one facet where it'd hit the floor. But the whole growth was coloured a deep, vivid crimson, that seemed to trap whatever light glanced off it; converting it to a burning glow down at the roots. With that, and with the rough rosette shape that the offshoots formed together, Tailgate could almost believe he was holding a little piece of solid fire in his hand - the only thing the illusion lacked was actual heat.

Presently, Tailgate came across a low little humpbacked bridge, that spanned a shallow-looking oil pond. He glanced at his reflection in the pool's surface as he crossed - and kept going, the crystal still clasped to his chest.

There was more light ahead, now; not the fierce aura of yet more lanterns, but something bigger and softer. Two stalagmites, framing the path like pillars, were suffused with its gentle glow as it beamed between them - and there was music swelling up through the gap, though it sounded slightly tinny and distant.

Tailgate tensed a little, realising that this could be the sign of life he'd been looking for.

Whether his discovery was a fortunate one or not remained to be seen. Inhaling sharply, he slipped between the pillars.

He emerged onto a long, elegant veranda: its back wall glittered with the light of thousands of tiny bulbs on strings; while on the edge facing the gardens, a delicate wrought trellis framed the path he'd just vacated. Twin, shallow staircases marched down to two narrower, lower tracks that wound off to either side.

Tailgate was less concerned with where those led than with the soft glow that still illuminated everything - it wasn't coming from the string lights, but he seemed to have found its source nevertheless. On the far right of the veranda gaped the maw of another cavern; and from its throat spilled a rich, golden light.

The music was winding its way out of there, too: its lilting melody was nothing like Tailgate had ever heard back above ground. Perhaps it was just his knowledge of where he must surely be by now, but there was something in the tune that sounded _old_ ; it was fragile yet intricate, like a relic locked away, untouched, in a vault somewhere.

The minibot crept closer, just as the tempo picked up. Shadows began to whirl past on the floor in front of him - loose, wraithlike shapes that looked to be left by beings more ethereal than solid.

There was a current of laughter bubbling along beneath the music, and the occasional snatch of voices demurring things too low to make out. Somebody stumbled - just out of Tailgate's sight, but their shadow wobbled and their feet clanked hard against the rock - and their proximity brought a wave of scent up to the minibot's olfactories: expensive wax and clear, distilled high grade and the tang of rare minerals.

Whoever it was, dancing in there, they wouldn't want a lowly disposal mech in their midst.

Still, Tailgate edged further down the short, squat passage that led to this mysterious celebration. Nobody could fault him for _looking_...

He'd just caught a glimpse of someone's blindingly scarlet plating when some _thing_ loomed up behind him.

"Weird - I've never seen you around here before."

Tailgate jumped so violently that he dropped his cane, and before he could stop to consider things, some instinct had sent him spinning to face the newcomer.

A single, round yellow optic filled his field of vision - flanked on the peripheries by an alarming collection of sharp, spindly shapes and lines.

Tailgate couldn't make out much more about this figure; but he didn't really need to. Emitting a startled shriek, he transformed and tore back off over the veranda, not even pausing as he clattered onto the narrow, twisty path now at his right.

"What'd I do _this_ time!?" the mech shouted - though he didn't sound like he wanted an answer, even if Tailgate had known how to reply.

* * *

 "You aren't thinking of joining them, perhaps, my lord?"

"I never have before."

"Of course not. You _have_ been watching for a while, though."

"... I'm going back to the chapel."

"As you wish, my lord. Shall I- ?"

"Not you. Send for Scourge. Tell him to see that I'm not disturbed."

* * *

 Tailgate's tyres were burning by the time he found his way out of the gardens again - and it'd only been a short drive. He felt a dull, staticky throb course its way through his folded-up legs and he mentally winced, wishing he'd not left his cane back on the veranda.

The minibot was pulled away from his inspection when something reared up on the sheer rock to his right, demanding attention.

It was a huge, arched gap in the wall - not a tunnel, or even a cave opening, but something that suggested a very deliberate _door_ had stood here at some point; even if the portal was now unobstructed, with no regard for potential trespassers.

Tailgate veered towards it, reasoning that becoming one of those trespassers was a better plan than nothing: a door meant a nice, normal building (as opposed to a creepy tower)... which meant _people_. People other than the nutjob who'd snuck up on him, or the partygoers, who'd seemed rather preoccupied with their festivities.

Besides, for every fancy mech who could afford to host those sort of events, you had servants - and Tailgate was willing to bet that if he could find a fellow cleaner, they'd at least sympathise enough to direct him to the nearest medic.

He just hoped medics were still a thing down here, in a world where rocks grew like organic plants; and towns turned to ghosts while their inhabitants ran away to dance.

The space inside the door was vast, but gloomy. Tailgate could make out a sketchy sort of shape at the opposite end of the hall: some waiting and a reset of his optics focused things until it became a sweeping staircase, albeit one still shrouded in shadow. The only light came from a passage on the minibot's right side - he could hear distant music and chatter in that direction, if he strained, and guessed this was still the house where the party was being hosted.

... Time to find the servants' quarters, then. He wasn't about to chance the stairs, with his legs in their current state - which left his only option as a narrower corridor to the left.

Tailgate realised that he'd probably have to transform. _Driving_ around in a place like this was a sure way to get him kicked out of it; much as his legs would loathe him for the decision. Sighing heavily, he scooted over to the wall and unfolded out of vehicle mode - stifling a cry of pain when a few sensors pinged back online, to admonish him for the movement.

He ignored their complaints and hobbled off in search of help - almost flat against the wall, so he wouldn't topple backwards if a foot slipped.

After a minute or so (he guessed), he heard footsteps.

There was a mech approaching, gaining on Tailgate as he advanced along the passage. The minibot almost squeaked aloud in alarm, but contained it; trying to speed his movements up from the crawl he'd been operating at.

Tailgate still wasn't sure how he was going to explain his presence to anyone down here, and he certainly didn't want his first attempt to be in a situation like this, with no time to prepare.

Bearing that in mind, the minibot ducked his head and called upon every atom of _I'm-just-a-lowly-disposal-mech-don't-mind-me_ aura that he possessed. There was a certain stance and gait and expression that everyone in Tailgate's line of work knew to assume, if they wanted to go about their daily tasks without being bothered by higher-ups.

The other mech soon caught up - but paid Tailgate no heed as the minibot slunk past, deferential as could be.

Tailgate did make sure to keep his pilfered crystal tucked deep into the crook of his elbow - he wouldn't get a chance to explain anything to anyone, if he was caught out for vandalism and theft.

Even if he fully intended to apologise and return the goods.

The other occupant of the passage soon came to a halt, facing back the way he'd come; standing at a relaxed sort of attention and clearly very alert. Watching, in case anyone dared try and access the stretch of corridor behind him.

(Luckily for Tailgate, the guard still hadn't noticed the little sanitation worker already skulking around in that spot.)

... Well. Tailgate couldn't exactly head back to the hall _now_ , could he?

Sighing very softly to himself (and then glancing at the guard to check he hadn't been heard), the minibot forged onwards. He soon found a hairpin bend in the passageway, and followed it - no matter that navigating the turn proved an even bigger strain on his legs.

_Whatever that guy was guarding had better be able to give me some decent answers. And medical care._

This new stretch of corridor was very badly lit - Tailgate could barely see where to place his feet. Thankfully, though, it soon ended; in a funny, square-shaped sort of chamber with rough stone walls, and narrow strip lamps deeply recessed into the rock.

There were strange metal inlays reaching around the room like silver veins; twisted into what might almost have been glyphs, if they didn't look so very... _alien_.

Or perhaps _alien_ was the wrong word. Here and there were bits that Tailgate could identify: crude symbols representing Cybertron and its moons; a collection of light rays and concentric circles that might've been the Well of All Sparks.

Not alien, then - but far removed from anything the minibot had seen before.

 _Ancient,_ he realised.

Even more so than the music.

Tailgate was struck, suddenly, by the sense that he shouldn't be here. He was too _new_ ; bright and shiny and stupid, completely unknowing compared to whatever wisdom must be written on these walls.

He also doubted, now, that he'd find anyone down here to help him out. The guard had probably been keeping watch over a place - _this_ place - rather than a person, and this looked like the kind of site you had to pass several security checks to enter.

Tailgate added 'trespassing' to his list of misdemeanours - he really wasn't going to make a great first impression down here.

... That thought took him, for the first time, back to the subject of his new placement up on the surface. Night must have fallen in the mountains by now, at the very least; if dawn wasn't already upon them. Tailgate wondered how long it'd take to find the landslide again, and to climb back up, once he was repaired - might he still get to keep the job? He'd have to invent some reason for his disappearance, he knew that much.

Rewind might not even believe him, if he returned claiming to have uncovered Upper Tetrahex. Not if his story involved eerie dancers and temples that looked like they belonged to Primus' own time.

\- And whatever that _noise_ was.

Tailgate jumped as the sound started up; funnelling its way down to him from a narrow tunnel, next to the one he'd just left. Cautiously, he took a few steps towards the opening - before stumbling forwards as his legs gave out. He grasped at the wall as he reached it, and started inching even more gingerly along the passage (he hoped this was the last one he'd have to follow; this place was like a petrorabbit warren).

But follow it he would, because it almost sounded as though someone was in _pain_ at the other end. The noise hadn't really let up, so far, although it rose and fell; rough and guttural, yet somehow resonant.

Tailgate had a strange feeling that it was some sort of song. Or at least, something that was trying to be one.

"... Hello?" the minibot called, tentatively. Song or something else, he didn't want to chance leaving the person producing that sound alone, if they might be hurt.

There was no answer - apparently, he hadn't been loud enough.

Tailgate supposed that the guard would be along shortly if there really was a problem. Still, he was almost at the end of the tunnel now; it made sense to check just in case.

Back pressed flat against the wall, the minibot shuffled around the corner and into the room that the passage opened onto. It was even smaller than the last chamber - circular, this time, with walls of smooth, slightly tarnished metal. Tailgate had the sensation of being inside a giant oil drum; especially with the way the space echoed to the snarling song reverberating around it.

And it looked as though Tailgate had found that singing's source.

There was a mech kneeling in the centre of the room; head bowed and shoulders hunched.

With a sword in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I PROMISE you there will be actual Cygate interaction next time.


	5. IV: Shut Away From The World

_"So let me get this straight - if you take this gig, you can never leave Tetrahex again?"  
_

_That earned a snort of laughter. "You sound so horrified. I don't think I've spent two weeks consecutively at home, since I met you."_

_"Yeah and I mean, I'd prefer if that didn't have to end, y'know? Who wants to spend their entire life in one spot?"_

_"Thanks to you, I won't have."_

_"So you're taking the job, then." The not-question was accompanied by a critical expression - darkened optics and a mouth pulled into a taut, disapproving line._

_A sigh. "It's hardly a_ job _. It's an honour. One I've been training for my entire life, nearly - you_ know _that."_

 _"And I know you deliberately avoided telling me that the_ honour _involves never seeing the rest of the galaxy - the rest of_ Cybertron _, even - for as long as you live."_

_"I'm at peace with that."_

_"Sure you are, but what about me?!" An accusatory finger jabbed itself in the young Lord-to-be's direction. "Maybe I don't want to stick around like you do."_

_"You won't have to. You're under no obligation to share my sentence, as you no doubt see it."_

_"You think I'm leaving you to run a city by yourself? Your resting bitchface alone'd scare off the_ Kaonian ambassador _!"_

_"And if I wanted to scare her off?"_

_"Then you're a shitty leader, aren't you? See? You need me around."_

_"Cybertron forgive me, you've actually become my voice of reason."_

_"Pit yeah, I have - which is why I'm staying. That, and... I couldn't go travelling by myself anyway. I'd miss your endless chatter."_

_"And I'd miss your companionable silence, if you left."_

_"Ah, stop it, you're making me blush." A pause. "I could still fly out sometimes, though - if you want. Bring you back news, or whatever, from the rest of the world. The feeds can't tell you everything."_

_"I've already got a plan for that, as it happens. And about my giving up travel..."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"I still have to make one last voyage before I assume the title. A pilgrimage to Iacon. To swear me in, if you will. But I'm allowed a companion; and I don't see why we couldn't take a couple of detours along the way."_

_"Primus, I hope you never propose to anyone - I haven't even said yes, yet!"_

_"Oh, well if you're sure you don't want to then I'll call Scourge"-_

_"Slag off. 'Course I'm coming with you. Someone's gotta stop you from terrifying the tourists."_

 

* * *

 

The sword was the first thing that Tailgate registered.

It was a shock to see someone in possession of one; let alone that the mech had the blade out of its sheath, bare and balanced across his knees. Tailgate didn't know anyone who owned a sword even just as an ornament - there'd been regulations on weapons of all kinds for millions of years, and nowadays the only armed mechs you saw regularly were enforcers carrying their blasters around.

But if those millions of years were passed underground, Tailgate supposed that it got more difficult to keep on top of the current trends in legislation.

It was only once he'd reasoned out that anomaly that the minibot processed the strangeness of the mech himself.

Partly, that was also thanks to the lighting; there were a couple of dim, globe-shaped lamps sitting at the far end of the room, and they didn't make for great visibility. But when the kneeling mech shifted slightly, their meagre glow sent a strange, glittering ripple over his back.

Tailgate dared to lean a little closer - then immediately rocked back against the wall again, trying to stifle his gasp with a hand over his mask. He couldn't hide the soft clank of his backpack hitting the wall, though, and that at last seemed to pierce through the song still filling the chamber.

The melody, such as it was, choked and faltered. Ahead of Tailgate, the mech had tensed up; hunching his shoulders even further over and tightening one servo around the hilt of his sword. In response, the minibot felt his spark thrum faster.

"Scourge, is that you? You know I don't like to be disturbed at prayer."

Tailgate stayed silent, utterly still and scarcely venting.

When he received no answer, the other mech moved; extending his sword, rising to his feet, and turning to face the minibot all in one graceful arc. The sweep of his arm seemed to happen in slow motion, bringing as it did the tip of the sword to rest just beneath Tailgate's chin - and yet somehow, that was not the most arresting sight.

As he moved, the mech seemed to shimmer. The dim light bounced off him in fragmented little pieces, not unlike those of the crystal that Tailgate had broken earlier; and that crystal was at the forefront of the minibot's mind as he stared at his... well, his captor, now, he supposed.

All over the swordsmech's body - sprouting between transformation seams, inching over plating, pushing their way out of joints - grew a host of glittering crystals and dull, roughened patches of rock. The stone was greyish-brown, so far as Tailgate could tell, and it clashed with his purple plating in such a way as to emphasise the sheer _wrongness_ of its presence. Rock was not what mechs were made of; no matter that this one was living proof it could be done.

The crystals were a riot of colour in comparison; but only against the hue of the stone. Some Tailgate glimpsed here and there were clear or cloudy white, but most shone deep and rich: a cluster of darkest indigo had colonised most of the forearm extended towards the minibot, and from the mech's shoulder stretched a line of spikes in dusky violet, disappearing down his back like a ridge. Tailgate even thought he saw a crimson growth, of the same kind as the one in his own hand, bunched at the mech's hip joint.

The missing horn seemed almost an afterthought in comparison - but a single, proud point rising on one side of the mech's helm, whilst mirrored by a stump, spoke as much of battle-scarring as the rest of his appearance spoke of terrifying otherworldliness.

Tailgate took all of this in whilst pressed into the wall by the point of a sword, and was amazed to find himself still not yet run through by the time he'd processed everything.

There was the faintest trace of puzzlement in the mech's face as he regarded his prisoner, however. Both eyes - one overshadowed by a thin rocky ridge, the other with a blue-black starburst of a crystal half-obscuring it - were dimmed slightly in contemplation, or scrutiny. Possibly a mix of both.

After a minute of watching Tailgate tremble, that low, somber voice spoke for the second time.

"I know the face of every Upper Tetrahexian citizen. I don't know yours. How did you find this place, and _why are you in my private chapel?_ "

"I'm sorry!" Tailgate squeaked. He wanted to throw up his arms to protect his face from that glare, but any sudden movement might get them sliced off. "I - I was trying to get to the Manganese Mountains, I fell - there was a landslide - and I woke up and it was all dark but then I found a light and followed it and I wound up here because I was looking for help... and I think my legs have just died," he added, more as a muttered acknowledgement to himself than anything.

A single, thoroughly furious warning was flashing up on his HUD. Error: stress damage, fuel reserves low, internal repair systems offline. Please seek medical assistance. Shutting damaged systems down... Shutting down...

Tailgate wobbled and slid down the wall as his legs gave out entirely. Thankfully, the swordsmech seemed to be blessed with fast reflexes - he yanked his weapon out of the way before it could slice the minibot's face open, taking a hurried step back and watching Tailgate's descent with something approaching concern.

"... You're injured."

"No slag," Tailgate hissed, as he struggled in vain to push himself upright again. "... Uh... _sir?_ " he added, as an afterthought. "I'm sorry, I just - I wasn't thinking"-

But the other mech had already turned away from him, reaching to sheathe his sword in a harness down his back. As Tailgate followed the movement, he noted that most of the space under the sheath was hollowed out, and filled with crystals like a geode - they caught the glow of the strange light in the sword's hilt and set to glimmering. Purple and blue-white, like newly-risen stars.

When his captor didn't turn to face him again, Tailgate wondered briefly if this was how he was to be punished for intruding: left to lie here while his legs throbbed with pain and static, as the swordsmech abandoned him and sealed him away in this tiny chapel.

Then, he realised the mech was talking into his commlink.

"Velocity, prepare a berth. There's a minibot in the chapel who's damaged his legs - no, i don't know how he got in, Scourge should have stopped him. I don't even know who he is, ridiculous as that sounds. Can you collect him? ... Very well. I'll bring him over."

The swordsmech swung back round, and levelled Tailgate with a glower.

"Do you want your legs fixed?"

"... Yes?"

Without any warning or further words, the mech bent down and scooped Tailgate up into his arms. That got a squeak of alarm from the minibot, much to his embarrassment, and he nearly dropped the little red gemstone he'd been holding.

His rescuer, now (though Tailgate used the term loosely), strode off back down the passage to the square chamber, gaze fixed resolutely ahead.

"I still want answers, once you're healed."

"Um... sure?" Tailgate nervously tucked his stolen crystal further into the crook of his arm, trying to hide it from sight. "Who"- _Who are you, making all these demands and going round picking minibots up, without asking first?_ "Who are you around here then? The captain of the guard or something?"

That did make the mech look down at him, a definite note of incredulity etched into his expression.

"I'm Cyclonus. Lord of Upper Tetrahex."

Tailgate, very adamantly, did not pass out that time - but it was a near thing.

 

* * *

 

It was several megacycles before Velocity would permit visitors for the newcomer - or _visitor_ , singular, as the case was. They'd tucked him away in one of the private rooms at the side of the medbay, to prevent any other occupants from spotting him and growing suspicious. Thankfully, Velocity reported not much traffic in any case; there was a bigger medical centre in the town itself, and this one tended to see more of the odds-and-ends issues encountered by those actually staying at the palace.

"I've patched him up as best I can," the medic said, wiping oil from her hands. "His legs shouldn't give him any trouble for a while, now - although I'll be scheduling checkups in the future."

She fixed her liege lord with a Look.

"I've never seen systems like his in my life. He's... he's so _advanced_ , Cyclonus. I'd give anything to study him a bit more, if it wouldn't reveal too much just to ask him."

She was perhaps the only one who dared refer to him by designation. Cyclonus had never cared either way how he was addressed, but something about his appearance seemed to inspire 'my Lord's and 'Sir's in most people. Possibly, it was the large sword he carried.

There was another, once, who'd used his name and not his titles.

Now that one wouldn't use anything to address him.

"He fell from the surface, didn't he."

Velocity's not-really-question dragged Cyclonus back to reality.

"Yes. I don't want him knowing too much about our situation, so be careful around him."

"You can't think he'd find his way back up. Who'd believe him if he told people about us, anyway?"

"He could bring more mecha down here, to show them. Anything's possible if he found his way in - the barrier might not keep them out."

"I guess." Velocity still looked skeptical. "He's all yours, anyway. Try not to scare him too much."

"I make no promises," Cyclonus said, earning him a reproachful frown. The medic was a terror to reckon with on the subject of her patients' wellbeing - and happiness, especially - but this minibot owed him answers. If intimidation was what it took to retrieve them, Cyclonus would face Velocity's ire.

The mini in question was sitting on his berth with his back propped up against a pillow. He looked as though he'd very much like to sink into its depths and vanish, when Cyclonus entered the room.

Before the little mech could start stammering again, Cyclonus spoke.

"How long has passed since we disappeared?"

The minibot's visor fritzed, as he presumably rebooted his optics.

"Uh. I'm not sure?" he said. "I mean, nobody can say for certain. Upper Tetrahex is kind of... kind of a myth."

Cyclonus nodded, more for the mini's benefit than anything.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

He noted the minibot's wince at his sharp response. Feeling a cluster of gems at his neck starting to grate at his collar faring, from the angle his head was tilted at, Cyclonus crossed to the visitor's chair nearer the berth.

His... guest, for want of a better word, tracked this movement carefully, and shrank back as Cyclonus sat down. Somewhere in the depths of him though, the mini seemed to have garnered enough resolve to speak again.

"Well, did you know it'd been so long? I guess it can't be nice to hear you've been forgotten."

"I'm glad of it," Cyclonus said, to a startled flare from his guest's EM field. "If anyone remembered, they might have come looking."

"And that isn't something you want?"

"No."

"... Why?"

"I don't think that's your concern."

"Well it is now that _I've_ found you!" the minibot said heatedly. "If you don't want to be discovered, how do I know you're not gonna just... run me through with that sword, to stop me getting back to the surface?"

"Is there any way you'd plan to stop me, if I intended to?"

That brought him up short. "I guess not."

"Then you understand that you have very little leverage down here."

The minibot's EM pulsed indignation, this time. Cyclonus was a little uncomfortable with how loosely the other mech let it flow - in his experience, one reined one's field in as much as one was able, particularly around strangers.

But, he supposed, his experience wasn't the norm on Cybertron as a whole anymore.

"I don't know if you've got any leverage over me, either!" the mini was saying now. "I- I mean sure, you're the Lord down here, but I'm not from Upper Tetrahex. I've not sworn loyalty to you or anything, so I don't _have_ to do what you say." He paused. "... Do I?"

"Not necessarily," Cyclonus replied grudgingly. He disliked unneeded deception in others; he wasn't about to start practicing it himself.

Of course, the loophole in that philosophy was the flexible boundary for 'unneeded.'

With that in mind, he withdrew from his subspace the item that Velocity had found on the minibot; placing it on the snowy berth cover so that it stood out, fiery and red.

"I have reason to believe you stole this."

Guilt washed through the mini's field.

"I didn't meant to!" he blurted, before flinching as he seemed to realise he'd just confessed. "I, uh, I accidentally broke one of the crystals in your gardens? I was going to own up to it, I swear, I just got kinda... distracted when my legs stopped working."

"Then why carry the evidence around with you?"

"Because I thought about getting rid of it," the minibot admitted. "But then I thought it'd be better to show someone and explain - and I really hope I guessed right and you aren't about to actually run me through please don't I'm sorry!"

Strangely, it was the exposure of this particular transgression that had finally broken his guest. The fact he'd fallen into an... _implausible_ underground city didn't seem to faze him; nor did being in the presence of the city's Lord. Perhaps those had been part of his design all along?

Theft of a gem cluster seemed an odd objective, though, if this was his master plan exposed. It wasn't even an especially valuable crystal.

Regardless, Cyclonus supposed he could use this to his advantage.

"Do you know what the penalty is for this sort of theft, down here?"

"... No?"

"Normally, you'd face imprisonment." An outright lie, but desperate times and all that. Whatever this minibot's agenda, Cyclonus could _not_ have him returning to the surface - and spreading the news of Upper Tetrahex's continued existence around.

The mini made a nervous little noise; the light from his visor starting to bleed out a little at the edges. Cyclonus had never seen anyone react that way to panic before.

Perhaps it was another modern thing.

"However," Cyclonus continued, "I'm willing to drop charges if you do something for me in return."

The leaking light dissipated slightly as the minibot froze.

"What do you want?" he asked. Rather tentatively, Cyclonus thought; but then, the other mech could easily have been visualising any number of requests that might be made of him. If he was the panicky sort, his imagination was sure to supply ample worst-case scenarios.

"I want you to stay in Upper Tetrahex, and tell me about all that's changed on the surface since I left. Or all that you can. And I don't want you telling any of my citizens how long they've been down here, or giving them hints." Cyclonus outlined his demands quickly, to stave off any unnecessary fuss from his guest.

Who rebooted his optics slowly, then frowned.

"That'd be... surprisingly easy, I guess," said the mini. "But why don't you want anyone else knowing?"

"I also don't want you questioning my reasons."

When all that got him was a quizzical, slightly suspicious squint (much as one could achieve that with a visor), Cyclonus went back to pressing his previous point.

"If you'd prefer to do jail time, I could arrange that."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

_I am, I can't deny it, but if you knew what was at stake..._

"I'm offering you a choice."

The minibot still looked a little sceptical. "How long do you want me to stay here for? I... I kinda have a job to get back to."

"As long as it takes for you to answer all my questions. Or as many as you can answer, although if you claim not to know anything at all then you'll have to serve your sentence for theft."

"Well then, what's the difference between staying to give you answers, and staying because I've been arrested?" the blue and white mech demanded. "I can't believe I'm saying this - but if I do jail time, at least I know how long it'll take!"

Cyclonus was losing control of the situation. There _was_ no jail sentence; the intruder had to agree to stay, or he'd be free and demanding to leave the town in time. If he'd just take the offer - if he'd just linger and talk, long enough for Cyclonus to make him forget he didn't belong down here...

Maybe the alternative being offered needed to seem more attractive.

"It's the difference between killing time in a cell, and having the freedom to explore Upper Tetrahex," Cyclonus said. "Everywhere in the town would be open to you; but you can't share your findings, once you"-

"Once I go back to the surface?"

Cyclonus nodded mutely, slightly angry at himself for such a blatant lie and therefore unable to voice it.

"You'd be invited to any events at the palace, while you're here. And we wouldn't need to tell my citizens about any of this."

The minibot sat up straighter - apparently, the party invitation had been the right bait to use. Cyclonus wasn't surprised. Looking at this little mech, with his rudimentary visor and face mask, frame patched here and there by rough weld marks too old to be Velocity's doing, the Lord of Upper Tetrahex would happily have betted that his guest was rather low-ranking; no matter what social hierarchy stood on Cybertron in the present day and age.

With any luck, he'd decide for himself that the lifestyle he could lead down here was better than the one he'd left behind.

With that in mind, it was probably time to give him a taste of said lifestyle.

"If my medic clears you for it, I can show you where you'd be staying."

The mini looked apprehensive. "Is it far? I don't know if I'm up to transforming."

"It's just upstairs," Cyclonus replied. He rose to leave, then noted his guest's visor brightening in surprise. "I already have other mecha staying here, you're not special."

"Don't they have their own homes down here?"

"They were visiting from other cities when we went down. There's still plenty of space for a little thing like you - I'll have Velocity send you up, and you can give me your answer once you've seen the room."

As he left, Cyclonus tried to convince himself that in some way, he would be doing the newcomer a favour by providing for him like this; giving him access to things he could never have had otherwise.

No matter which way he cut it, however, his reasoning soured and turned to... if not guilt, then anger. At himself, for what he was concealing from the minibot.

After all, there wasn't a day now when Cyclonus didn't rue his own confinement - and he'd entered into it willingly.

 

* * *

 

Velocity, it transpired, was not prepared to discharge Tailgate early so that he could be given a tour. She was keeping him in her medbay for as long as necessary, with no regard for the whims of Lords of Upper Tetrahex.

Tailgate liked Velocity. She seemed to think he was alright, too, which meant that if he slagged off the wrong person down here there might be someone who had his back. Perhaps only if he could present proof of injury to incite her wrath, but it was a decent start as far as making acquaintances went.

Especially since he'd already got off on the wrong foot with this place's ruler.

The ruler he was now journeying to meet. Tailgate desperately hoped he wasn't about to get lost again - with the luck he was having so far, he'd probably get accused of snooping around for more things to steal.

Velocity had said it wasn't far, though, and Tailgate soon found that to be true: up the gargantuan, seemingly endless staircase in the main hall; turning left and following the landing; through a gaping archway that, much like the palace's entrance, seemed once to have housed an impressively tall set of doors...

Everything down here either had veins of rock running through it, or was comprised entirely of stone - much like Cyclonus himself. The only room Tailgate had seen so far made completely from metal was the chapel's round inner chamber.

Unlike Cyclonus, however, the rest of the rock-hewn palace showed no sign of crystal growths or collections of precious gems. That trait seemed exclusive to the building's owner; and to the gardens.

The minibot ascended a narrow, slightly rickety staircase, that clung to a curved section of this vast new hallway's left-hand wall - and abruptly came face to face with said owner.

He stood with folded arms and dour expression, and stared Tailgate down in a frankly unnecessarily severe sort of way.

It was odd: up until he'd actually met the mech (properly, since nearly fainting in someone's arms didn't count as a real introduction in Tailgate's book), he'd been terrified by the thought of entering Cyclonus' presence; much less being brought to task for his own accidental theft.

Admittedly, the knowledge that the crystal had been discovered had nearly sent him into a panic as it was.

But a strange combination of fear for his life - up against a judge who had no reason to spare it - and a realisation that that judge seemingly had his own secrets to conceal, had bolstered Tailgate enough that he could at least stand his ground where he might otherwise have cowered.

What had also helped was the remembrance that while Cyclonus was technically Lord down here, Tailgate was from a time when authority figureheads wielded far less power. Even Vos' Crown Prince had a council to rein him in. A lowly sanitation worker Tailgate might have been; but though he'd never normally dare to strike up a conversation with a noble, he wouldn't take orders from one unless they employed him.

Or, admittedly, if they thought he'd stolen from them.

In any case, all of this enabled him to get the first word in once he stepped off the staircase.

"You know, I realised you don't even know my name yet. I'm Tailgate."

Cyclonus' only reaction to that was a raised eyebrow. A white gem growth peeking out from under his helm glittered faintly with the movement.

"Your room is this way," he said, turning sharply on his heel and pressing his hand to a set of door controls. A slab of dull, engraved metal slid aside at his touch, revealing that what Tailgate had previously taken for a plain wall actually concealed a funny pointed archway.

They stepped through one after the other, Cyclonus taking the lead; and entered a little semicircular sitting room, covered over high above their heads by half a domed roof. Craning his head back, Tailgate guessed that the canopy might have been a sort of translucent glass - he supposed that up on the surface, it would've let light through.

It was a bright, whitish-blue sort of colour, as far as the minibot could tell. The only window was a little rectangular one, over to the right. With sunlight and an open sky above it, this chamber must have been bathed in pale turquoise light once upon a time.

The room itself was quaint by the rest of the palace's standards; but still grander than anywhere Tailgate had stayed before. A collection of couches, padded chairs and delicate silver tables were ranged across the floor - enough, probably, that the minibot could've entertained all of his friends from back on the surface in here at once (though that wasn't saying much). Across the room a set of shallow steps, flanked by ornately-worked railings, led up to a low, wide balcony and what was presumably a berthroom door.

The walls were lined with shelves that probably ought to have been full of datapads, but in reality only contained a few paltry piles here and there. Tailgate drifted over to inspect one such collection, not doing Cyclonus the courtesy of commenting on any aspect of his prospective living quarters. The Lord of Upper Tetrahex really didn't seem to appreciate small talk, anyway: he'd said all of five words to a guest that he'd offered to entertain - however unexpected said guest's arrival might have been - and even Tailgate, common sanitation worker though he was, knew that was rude.

"You can have more brought up, if you want. We're directly above the library."

Maybe this had been overflow space at one point, then - hence the shelves.

The minibot graciously decided to dismiss his gripe about small talk, too, in the face of this new unsolicited information. He wondered what could've prompted it. Much as he'd like to believe Cyclonus was just trying to be polite, the swordsmech probably hadn't undergone such a drastic personality shift in the last couple of cycles.

"... Do we have a deal? These rooms and your freedom, for my answers?"

There it was. Tailgate didn't see much point in refusing, now he had a better idea of the kind of life he might lead down here. Visor brightening, he turned away from the datapads to face Cyclonus.

"Yeah, sure - I'll take it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's another chapter title from a song on the (Broadway) soundtrack, but you have NO idea how tempted I was to call this one 'Be Our Guest'. 
> 
> This time of year is about when I'd be saying to expect really-sporadic-to-nonexistent updates, since it's exam season; but this year I actually only have two to sit so I'm... tentatively hopeful that there'll be another chapter out soon enough. Especially as the next one should be about the Upper Tetrahex party scene in some capacity, which I know will be SUPER fun to write. 
> 
> Until next time!


	6. V: Be Our Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: So guys, if anyone is seeing this, I'm afraid that I'll be putting this fic more or less on hiatus until next Spring. I'll try to get a chapter or two out in the meantime, but I am very much deliberately delaying updates, for reasons that I will explain:
> 
> The 'Spring' part is kinda significant - on the 17th of March, the live action Beauty and the Beast movie comes out. Along with that movie, there will hopefully be a soundtrack to buy. And I KNOW, knowing me, that if I've already written a big chunk of BatB au fanfic, and then watch that movie and listen to that soundtrack, I'll be kicking myself. Because I'll get all sorts of ideas that I could've added to my story - but it'll be too late, and I'll be filled with regret. 
> 
> This is not an exaggeration, trust me. I know how my brain works. 
> 
> So! I'm putting this off until the movie is out because I just know it'll be a goldmine of new inspiration for this fic. (Seriously, I saw like a five second clip from the table reading yesterday and I'm already getting plot bunnies). 
> 
> Roll on March 17th! I can't wait for this film to be out, and to get back to working on this fic in earnest!

As things turned out, the oil bath Tailgate had been wishing for resided in his own private washrack. He took advantage of that immediately, though for how long, he wasn't entirely sure - Velocity hadn't been able to repair his chronometer, explaining that the mechanisms were too different from what she'd been taught to work with. 

Still, it wasn't like Tailgate would be on anywhere near as tight a schedule now as his job usually demanded. He didn't even have anything to be late to, yet. 

And besides - if he really needed a timepiece, there was one on a table in the berthroom, just next door. He'd spotted it during his exploration of the suite, and if Tailgate was honest he hadn't even realised it was a clock at first.

He hadn't known something so mundane could be so beautiful.

It was an odd shape, certainly, and seemed to run on clockwork rather than anything electrical; which was unusual in itself. Tailgate didn't think they'd been that primitive in the days of Upper Tetrahex; which meant he'd probably been looking at someone's vanity project, or a collector's item. Maybe both. 

What he knew for certain was that he'd been scared to touch it, not least after the incident with the crystal that'd landed him here. The little device was slender at its base, but top-heavy; crafted from dozens of foil-thin golden plates that enclosed the internal mechanisms, like the most delicate of gilded cages. 

Its display was spherical - a little crystal globe, set close to the top - and upon first seeing it, Tailgate hadn't actually been able to tell the time. Instead of a digital readout, the cogs and weights inside the machine triggered the rotation of tiny, round discs strung on rods inside the globe. Each had a value of time carved into it. Tailgate had counted at least five cycles, as he sat watching the clock flip through its collection of seconds over and over. The effect was almost hypnotic.  

Tailgate could feel himself drifting off again here in the bath, just thinking about it. Shaking himself rather violently (and causing a couple of mini tidal waves in the process) he shuffled further up through the oil, bracing his hands on the sides of the pool when he realised he'd been sliding in. 

If he was falling asleep in here, perhaps it was time to get out...

His legs weren't quite in agreement with that, though - they'd been through a rough time lately, and rather appreciated the hot oil taking Tailgate's weight off of them. Velocity  _had_  said he'd be experiencing aches and pains for a while at least; partly due to the severity of the damage, and partly to the matter of incompatible medical equipment. 

And knowledge.  

Tailgate hoped he never got  _too_  sick while he was down here. 

Velocity had been kind, though; which was more than Tailgate could say for her boss. Her liege lord? The minibot wasn't yet quite sure how to refer to Cyclonus' position - the system in Upper Tetrahex was so antiquated, compared to anything on modern-day Cybertron, that he knew it'd take some time to wrap his head around it. He wasn't even sure what  _made_  Cyclonus a leader. 

Had he inherited the title from a creator, or been elected, or chosen through some other means? Tailgate would've made a mental note to ask the swordsmech, if he thought for a moment he'd get a straight answer. 

And then there was the matter of Cyclonus' appearance.  _That_  didn't seem normal even by Upper Tetrahex's standards: neither Velocity nor the mech who'd ambushed Tailgate on the veranda had had the merest little gem growing on them, so far as the minibot could tell. Even if it was typical for residents of the town (and Tailgate fervently hoped that, if that was the case, it wasn't catching), Cyclonus seemed to have a far more advanced strain of it. 

At times during their two conversations, Tailgate had gotten the sense that this condition, whatever it was, was severe enough to cause Cyclonus pain. The mech gave hardly anything away with his expressions, but especially during the tour of Tailgate's new rooms his movements had been stiff and tense - not unlike a piece of clockwork wound too tightly.  

Perhaps that was why he tended towards the caustic when interacting with people. Tailgate felt a twinge of sympathy; having his legs in a state had been bad enough on a temporary basis, and he'd been numb to the pain for the most part. He couldn't imagine what it'd be like to live with that discomfort constantly. 

Speaking of which... he'd been about to get out of the bath, hadn't he? In spite of the break it was giving his legs. 

Having time to relax like this was really going to take some getting used to. 

 _Everything_  down here was going to need that, in fact.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

After drying off and poking around his new rooms some more, Tailgate descended the wobbly staircase with half a mind to explore the palace. He'd never set foot in a building this grand in his life; and Cyclonus had mentioned a library, which might even house some information on the situation in the town. 

If nothing else, Tailgate mused, he could look for a map or something. That'd stop him from stumbling into restricted areas like the chapel again. 

At the foot of the stairs, however, his plans wound up somewhat sidetracked - there was a small knot of mecha in the hall who were, to all appearances, waiting for him. Clearly, word of Tailgate's arrival had got far enough around to merit a welcoming committee. 

He wasn't really sure how he was supposed to address these newcomers. While he was still pondering the best way to introduce himself, the group's shortest member glanced over, and spotted Tailgate tiptoeing his way down the last few steps. 

"Hey! Tailgate, right?" 

The speaker was another minibot; and much like Tailgate, he was painted mostly white and sported a visor. He wore red accents to Tailgate's blue, though - and where Tailgate had a mask and a rudimentary intake, the other mech's mouth grinned wide in greeting. 

"Uh. Yes?" Tailgate's reply came out as another question. "How d'you know my name?" 

"Lotty told us! After we asked several times," the red mini said, as the rest of the party turned their heads to watch the conversation - and Tailgate. 

"Don't worry, though," cut in a tall, winged femme with vivid scarlet plating. (Upon noting the shade of her armour, Tailgate realised it was her he'd seen stumbling past on the night of the party). "Your doctor-patient confidentiality's still mostly intact. She only told Swerve your name to shut him up." 

"You're just saying that 'cause you're jealous that I'm her favourite," the minibot - now identified as Swerve - shot back. 

"Yeah, because nothing says 'favouritism' like 'D'you want me to take a cue from Ratchet and weld your mouth shut?', right?" 

That was a taller mech, painted in even glossier, flame-red hues than the femme. Tailgate's first guess looking at him was 'speedster' - a shiny golden spoiler arched up into an elegant point behind each of his shoulders. 

"Well Ratchet never actually made good on that promise"-

-"Much as we all wish he had," interjected a new voice - a bulky blue femme who was lurking at the back of the group.

-"And Lotty's a ray of sunshine really, so none of you are gonna have to live without my scintillating conversation any time soon." 

Tailgate decided that he liked this other minibot. There was something in his quick humour and affability that echoed Rewind's attitude; and he seemed friendlier than all these taller mecha with their cutting remarks. Tailgate had experience enough of that himself - smiling and saying nothing, while his employers had their fun with jokes and barbed comments. 

He felt a sort of kinship kindling in his spark towards Swerve as a result of that. The red mini didn't seem to quite fit in with the rest of the crowd, looking much like Tailgate had felt before, on occasions interacting with bots of their ilk. 

The difference for Tailgate this time, though, was that everyone actually appeared interested in him. 

"We done talking about Swerve, yet?" the final member of the group demanded. "I thought we were here as tour guides, not a crappy standup routine." 

"That's assuming we're wanted as tour guides, Atomizer," the winged femme said, a faint reproachful note in her voice. "It was a good idea, but..." Here, she turned to Tailgate. 

"You were injured, right? Are you sure you're up to walking round the city?" 

Tailgate startled slightly at the sudden shift in the conversation's focus, rebooting his optics before replying. 

"I think so?" Primus, he couldn't make anything he said sound certain at the moment. "I've been patched up, so I guess I'm as fit for it as I'll ever be. Is there much to see?" 

"There's loads!" said Swerve, spreading his arms wide to illustrate his point. "The gardens, the towers, the market... I can show you my bar, too! It's not as impressive, but it's popular - we might find some more people waiting to meet you in there." 

"... People want to meet me?" 

"Of course they do," Atomizer said. "It doesn't rain minibots every day." 

"Be nice," the winged femme chided, with a light flick of her fingers against Atomizer's arm. 

"Actually, you're the first fresh face we've seen almost since we ended up down here," the flame-coloured speedster cut in. "Everyone's talking about you, I think you'll have to say 'hi' to the whole town before they'll let you rest."

"Oh." Tailgate cursed himself inwardly for how small his voice sounded. "That's, uh, great, I guess..." 

As the group watched him in faint concern, he started tapping his fingers together nervously. "They just want to say hello to me, then?" 

"Well, and quiz you about what Cybertron's like, nowadays!" the speedster  beamed. Tailgate had, sadly, been expecting as much. "Whenever 'nowadays' is. Did they start construction on that theme park they were planning, up in Iacon, yet?"

"... Which one?"

"The little one that was gonna go on the outskirts - hang on, it'll come to me in a klik"- the red mech paused abruptly and snapped his fingers. 

"That was it! Six Lasers Over Cybertron! I mean, I dunno if many people knew about it, but if you've heard anything..."

"But that's- !" Six Lasers was renowned as one of the longest-running attractions on Cybertron. And one of the biggest. Its construction date was a huge point of pride for the owners - and it was a date from  _way_  in the past. 

Tailgate supposed he should've seen that coming, given who he was speaking to. Still, it was unsettling to realise that all these mechs belonged to a history from millennia ago. 

He rebooted his vocaliser in an attempt to cover up for his outburst. 

"Yeah, they finished building it."  _Long before I was even born._  "It got really popular, actually." 

The speedster's grin widened, though his optics were far dimmer than his smile. "That's great! Hope I get to see it myself someday." 

Tailgate was just about to congratulate himself on a crisis averted when the red mech spoke again. 

"Oh, what about"- 

"Did you consider the rest of us might have questions too, Rodimus?" To Tailgate's relief, Atomizer silenced the mech before he could throw out another query to be dodged. And that'd only been the first one! Tailgate was really going to need a proper strategy or he'd end up breaking the terms of Cyclonus' deal - and who knew what the consequences would be then?

Admittedly - after the Lord of Tetrahex had (somewhat) abandoned his intimidating facade to rush Tailgate to the medbay - the mini doubted he was facing personal harm if he screwed up; but Cyclonus clearly had a good reason for wanting to keep his citizens in the dark. 

Or a strongly-motivated one, at least. Tailgate wasn't hugely comfortable with this deception, but it didn't take a political caste mech to realise that his outside information could create some serious unrest in this town. He didn't particularly want to be the centre of a storm like that. 

Even what little he knew of Cybertron's history could do damage. 

That jogged a memory from the medbay. _If you claim not to know anything at all..._

"I'm, ah, not sure I'd be able to answer  _all_  your questions anyway," Tailgate ventured. Ten pairs of optics snapped towards him and he resisted the urge to flinch. "I don't... really know masses about what happened on Cybertron while"- he paused for maybe a fraction too long, casting wildly for an excuse -"while I was away." 

The winged femme blinked. "You mean off-planet? How long for?" 

"Most of my function," Tailgate replied. "Part of my job, see. I only get short bits of leave now and then, to come back home." 

"What job was that, then?" Swerve asked. "Is it why you've got '-osal' written on your arm there?" 

He pointed, and as Tailgate glanced downwards an idea dropped into his processor. 

"Yeah! That's, uh, it must have got scratched off when I fell - it's supposed to say 'bomb disposal'. I'll ask Velocity if she can paint it back on again." 

Everyone was still watching him, clearly expecting further elaboration. Frag.

"So  _why_  were you going off-planet to defuse bombs?" the blue femme asked. An eyebrow quirked in what could've been scepticism or simple curiosity. 

Tailgate hesitated for a millisecond. "I'm in the Primal Vanguard. Was." That was a relatively recent thing, right? It'd been disbanded by now, but Tailgate was sure there hadn't been a Vanguard at the time of the Functionists, if he remembered his history right. "Dunno if they'll have me back, now I've gone MIA like this"-

"The  _Primal Vanguard?_  You're kidding," said Rodimus. The winged femme glared at him for interrupting, but he took no notice. "They started that back up? And you're telling me they took on a cute little minibot like you?" 

Despite the sheer untruth of his story, Tailgate found that that stung. "Why shouldn't they?" he snapped. "I'm small, I can get into tight places. Places where people might hide bombs so they can't be defused." 

Frag, frag, frag, he must have remembered wrong, the Functionists had probably disabled the Vanguard when they came to power - they  _had_  been fond of doing that with various Golden Age institutions. At least, according to history vids, which Tailgate would be the first to admit he never really paid much attention to. 

... Maybe Cyclonus would be able to help him out? It was in his best interests, after all, if he wanted Tailgate to conceal the truth. 

Tailgate didn't exactly fancy ambushing him in the chapel again, though, and wasn't really sure how to track him down otherwise. He'd have to wait until Cyclonus summoned  _him_ ; which might not be for a while yet. There were probably plenty more important things for the Lord of Upper Tetrahex to do, rather than listening to stories from a waste disposal bot. 

The welcome committee was still watching. To stave off any more questions, Tailgate aimed for a subject change. 

"I think I've been talking about myself enough, though, right? You guys promised me a tour of the city - I'll tell you more about Cybertron, if you show me 'round this place first?" 

 

* * *

 

"Cyclonus? You wanted to see me." 

"Did you realise Tailgate was there, when he found his way into the chapel?" 

Scourge paused in the sitting-room doorway; Cyclonus let him hover for a moment, continuing to peruse his datapad, before looking up. 

"Of course I didn't. I wouldn't have let him past." 

"Then how did he manage to elude you?" 

The blue mech - Cyclonus' closest companion since the betrayal of his Amica - wilted a little. "I'm sorry. It was an oversight on my part, I think. I just wasn't expecting any intruders to make their way in at waist level. Especially ones as... apparently sneaky as him." 

"Sneaky enough that you never even saw him." Cyclonus raised an eyebrow, ignoring the mild stab of pain that the action prompted. Damn it all, he had a new crystal sprouting already - and  _under his helm_ , of all places... 

Scourge returned the quizzical look with one of his own.

"Do you think he was trying to get in there deliberately? I thought he told you he got lost. And coming from the surface, he  _couldn't_  know about the chapel." 

"I won't rule it out. I can't afford to overlook anything, after last time." 

The other mech's expression slid from doubtful to disbelieving and he strode across to Cyclonus' chair, glancing furtively at the open archway which served as a door. His voice was low, when he next spoke. 

"I don't see how this Tailgate could cause a disaster on such a scale. He's just a minibot, practically disposable class." 

"I assume that's why you never noticed him, then." Cyclonus gave a humourless smile as Scourge frowned. "And I had no small part to play in the disaster, last time. I'm not expecting that Tailgate will drop us further towards the core." 

"Then what are you afraid of?" 

"Trouble."

Scourge twitched his wings, folded his arms, and narrowed his optics; the long-since perfected trifecta that told Cyclonus he was being deliberately vague, and to stop it. 

Cyclonus huffed, exasperated. He'd been harried by Velocity and sniped at by an intruding minibot in short succession. The safety of his city had been thrown into question after, apparently, millennia of peace. His... condition was definitely worsening, faster than he'd seen it move before. 

He'd appreciate it if Scourge would just answer his questions and make himself scarce - but the blue mech had been hanging around Cyclonus for far too long to just roll over and take orders. 

"It doesn't take a genius to see that Tailgate could stir things up, even if he's completely innocent," he snapped. "If he came here with an agenda, he could wreak several different kinds of havoc before we even know what his plan is." 

_And I don't think I could fix things this time._

_Not that I managed before._

"For all we know, he could be another thief. I need you and Drift to watch him. Better than you did when he first arrived." 

"I think we'd find it a lot easier if you told us what he might steal"- 

"I can't. We've discussed this already. Several times, and my answer won't change." Cyclonus returned his attention to the datapad and, blessedly, Scourge seemed to take the hint that he was dismissed. 

It was only once the other mech's retreating footsteps died away that Cyclonus allowed himself to slump a little in his chair, lifting a hand almost unconsciously to rub at the little jagged nub of gemstone protruding from beneath his helm. 

Had he not confided in somebody before? And had that not been his greatest mistake? 

For the first time, he found himself wishing he could abandon this mess he'd created. It had been... manageable, keeping the city running in isolation - but now Tailgate had dropped into their midst. And this little messenger from the future, with his naivety and open curiosity, could easily dig up things from the past that Cyclonus had very carefully buried. 

To say nothing of what he might expose if he actively set his mind to it. 

 

* * *

 

"This _is your plan for staying on top of things? Are you serious?"_

_"Why wouldn't I be?"_

_"Because you're a terrible host, even when it's just me and Scourge you're entertaining. You're telling me you're up to throwing parties like this every week? Just to hear the latest news?"_

_"I don't need to host them. I just need to be present. I'll only be part of a proud tradition, you know - almost all the mecha who accepted this post before me were various shades of elusive."_

_"Is that how we're picking governments now? 'Hey, you! You're a mysterious, kinda suspicious-looking loner! Wanna be Prime?'"_

_The newly-minted Lord stifled a snicker. "Lower your voice; I don't want people staring at us. And..._ mysterious? _"_

_"Don't flatter yourself._ You're  _suspicious-looking. You couldn't pull off_  mysterious  _if your other horn depended on it. And people are staring at me anyway, I bet."_

_That put a distinct damper on the mood. The pair stood in silence, watching as the last few guests straggled into the ballroom; each visitor's assorted trinkets and finery glittered and shimmered, in the golden glow seeping through from the chandeliers._

_All these trappings weren't exactly something Cyclonus had been prepared for dealing with._

_It was his companion who finally spoke again, as he tracked the progress of a pretty, red seeker with a facemask._

_"So what... you're just gonna hang round at the edges and spy on people's conversations, or something?"_

_"Essentially, yes."_

_"Huh." The other mech folded his arms. "Is that some kinda Tetrahex tradition, too?"_

_"It is. My mentor - my predecessor - did give me quite in-depth coaching on the intricacies of diplomacy, even if you don't believe any of it stuck. And I was also told that generally, her advice is best abandoned once you're out of the public eye."_

_"You're never in the public eye."_

_Cyclonus merely smiled._

_"And with all your upper-caste guests, you're gonna hear a bunch of stuff  the newsfeeds won't tell you." His Amica huffed, sounding grudgingly impressed. "Maybe you're not as cracked as I thought you were. Even if you as a party kind of mech is still a weird idea."_

_"I'll admit, I didn't pick up nearly enough skills in that direction at the Flight Academy."_

_"'Cause you were too busy reading to ever relax."_

_"Reading was relaxing."_

_"Cut loose, then, slag, I dunno. You and your stupid hidden messages and scrap. I had to sit on those slagging datapads if I wanted to tell you anything. Still do."_

_"The Clavis Aurea_  has  _been part of my life since I was forged." A pause. "Which reminds me..."_

_"Yeah? Reminds you of what?"_

_"After Iacon. I promised to show you properly, didn't I?" Cyclonus glanced around the hallway, checking for lingering partygoers, before motioning for his Amica to follow him away from the doors._

_"I think now's as good a time as any to introduce you to the Key."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know I said I wasn't gonna use that title, but this time it was too perfect to resist. :p
> 
> This one felt a little bit filler-ish to me, but hopefully I can make up for it next time, since you'll be getting a proper tour of Upper Tetrahex thanks to Tailgate's new friends.


	7. VI: Here's Where He Meets Prince Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT HAS BEEN OVER A YEAR AND I AM SO SORRY. In my defence, waiting for the new BatB movie to come out definitely helped, as it gave me a bunch of new ideas... I just didn't factor in that the release date was right before things kicked off for the final project on my course. That's all over and done with now, though (I got a Distinction, and an award! :D), so please accept this chapter and also my sincerest apologies. 
> 
> ... And I have to apologise again, actually, because after a year of hiatus and after the crushing blow that Cygate took recently in canon, I'm returning with a chapter full of Gateaway content. I can only promise that it's Gateaway content that is entirely necessary to the plot (I wouldn't be writing it otherwise), and I also promise that next time, Cyclonus' and Tailgate's paths will cross again.

_A suspicious glare was levelled at the mech on the other side of the door. "You're one of the diplomats, right? The slag do you want? I thought all the visitors were getting a grand tour."_

_"I've never had much of an interest in architecture."_

_"You're more interested in poking your nose in other mechs' business, then?"_

_A more than faintly smug smirk preceded the intruder's response. "I would've thought that as the Tetrahexian Lord's amica, you'd be more polite to potential allies of the city."_

_"Lord-in-waiting," the room's occupant corrected immediately. "And I would've thought as a diplomat, you'd know better than to sniff round where you're not wanted."_

_The other mech sighed. "Look, this isn't getting us anywhere. May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."_

_"Why the frag would I let you do that?"_

_His smirk was rather nastier this time._

_"Because despite what you think you know, I'm not a diplomat in the traditional sense. I'm certainly not diplomatic about getting what I want."_

_That earned him a raised eyebrow._

_"... Are you threatening me?"_

_"Do you want to test me and find out?"_

_The would-be guest was rewarded with a noncommittal grunt and some shuffling to let him through. He gave the room a cursory glance as he entered, seeming to be most interested in the shelves around the walls._

_"What would someone of your background want with all these datapads?"_

_His reluctant host went still._

_"... If you do know anything about my_ background _… if you've been spying… you'll know that someone with my job wouldn't want them - but I do. And if you have done a background check, you'll know that you should stop talking about this right now, and tell me how you found what you did; or you will be very, very sorry."_

_"I did say, I'm not your typical..."_

_The visitor trailed off, apparently transfixed by something on a nearby side table._

_"... What is that?"_

_His host glared, moving swiftly to place himself between object and guest. "What d'you think it is? You've got eyes yourself, you tell me."_

_"I know what it is," came the impatient reply. "It's what it looks like that interests me. That's almost a perfect replica of the drawings from"-_

_"From where? I've never seen any drawings. I just made this design up, all by myself."_

_"Yes, I'm sure you did." The other mech didn't miss a beat. "It is your work, then? I wonder what inspired you..."_

_"You know what? You can see yourself out right now, or I'll be_ inspired _to throw you out on your aft."_

 _"Of course. I don't want to interrupt your brooding any more than necessary. I'm guessing the frostiness between you and Lord - sorry,_ Cyclonus,  _earlier was over you losing your travelling companion?"_

_It was only the intruder's speedy exit after his words that prevented an inter-city-state incident._

 

* * *

 

Upper Tetrahex would never entirely cease to unsettle Tailgate, purely by dint of what it was; but it did improve somewhat when explored in the company of other living mechanisms.

The group he was walking round with began as a small knot of five, not counting himself: Swerve, Atomizer, Rodimus the speedster, Windblade the jet, and her somewhat stoic friend, Chromia. Upon descending the gargantuan staircase in the entrance hall, however, their party was hailed by someone hurrying along the landing just behind them.

“Rodimus! You found him!”

Tailgate started a little at the shout, and again at the implication - he'd only just recovered from the first batch of people actually wanting to talk to him.

A curvy, white mech with pointed helm finials sprinted into view.

“Can I come with?”

“Shouldn't that be for our guest to decide?” Windblade asked, arching an eyebrow. Tailgate noted that everyone was regarding this newcomer rather coolly - everyone, that is, save Rodimus. The speedster had opened his mouth to reply before Windblade spoke, a broad grin splitting his face. At the reprimand, he rearranged his expression a little and turned to Tailgate.

“Are you okay with Drift tagging along?”

Tailgate shrugged - he didn't know what sort of history was at play here. “I don't see why not. The more the merrier, right?”

Despite his own indifference, he couldn't miss the way Atomizer’s brow furrowed at his words. Swerve, too, was regarding Drift a little uncertainly; as everyone set off again, Tailgate leaned in to whisper to his fellow minibot.

“... Did I say the wrong thing?”

Swerve gave a sort of half-grimace in reply. “I mean it's like Windblade said, this is your party. But Drift and Scourge are just a bit… a bit of a touchy subject for most of us.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, they report directly to Lord Cyclonus. I dunno what their job description is - they're either bodyguards, or advisors, or spies or something. Crappy spies, I guess, ‘cause they don't exactly try to hide, but that might be some kind of weird triple-bluff for all I know.” Swerve waved a hand, seemingly in exasperation at his inadequate knowledge on the subject. He still appeared content to talk about it at length, though.

“Drift’s not as bad as Scourge, at least according to Rodimus - but ‘I trust Rodimus’ judgement’ has about the same ring to it as ‘Surfing meteors is an actual, realistic hobby for an actual, real person to have.’” Here, Swerve paused again. “He has literally done that, apparently, by the way. Rodimus. Surfing on meteors.”

Tailgate eyed the speedster - fiery paint and flame decals and all.

“Yeah, somehow that's not hard to believe.”

Their passage across the highly polished floor of the entrance hall, and beneath the grand, door-less doorway gave Tailgate time to mull over what Swerve had said - and become puzzled.

“Wait… what do you mean about Drift being ‘not as bad’? And why would Cyclonus want to spy on everyone? I know I've met him for all of a day, but he seems to just… hate interacting with other people in general. Someone like that isn't gonna want to know more about whoever he just avoided a conversation with.”

Swerve sighed. “Look, the mech lives in his chapel, never shows up to his own parties, and looks like a geode threw up on him. You start questioning things, and he’ll vanish in a cloud of dramatic sparkles.”

“... I genuinely can't tell if you're joking or not.”

“Exactly!” The other mini, exasperated, threw his hands up in the air. “I'm just a bartender - I don't know why most of the stuff here happens the way it does. Except I'm not even a bartender, I'm a metallurgist, but when you've got an appointment in the upper city and then the upper city sinks and cuts you off from your own clinic, you kinda have to look for other employment. And I know there's the stereotype of bartenders hearing everything, but… well. Look at Scourge and Lord Cyclonus - if they even came near my bar, their idea of ‘opening up’ involves sharp swords and lots of screaming.”

Tailgate found himself wondering, once again, if he'd been lucky to escape with his life when he first met Cyclonus. “Are you saying they _kill_ people? Is -” he lowered his voice “- is Drift like that, too?”

Perhaps he'd do well to hide when Cyclonus eventually summoned him.

“I mean, they probably _have_ ,” said Swerve, shrugging. “Ages ago. Not Drift, he came along later, but everyone knows the stories about the others - Cyclonus and Scourge and -”

“And?”

But Swerve shook his head, gaze fixed in front of them. Drift, glancing over his shoulder, appeared to have tuned into their conversation - and Swerve clearly didn't want him eavesdropping.

Eventually, the white mech turned back to Rodimus, and Swerve continued.

“Anyway, none of us trust Drift or the other two much, ‘cause they're the ones who made the city sink, and they like to walk around carrying swords when they bother to grace us with their presence. And they might be crappy spies. And they've definitely killed people, even if they've kicked the habit by now. Drift tells Rodimus everything he wants to hear, though, so at least one of them’s made a friend.”

By now, they were back in the crystal gardens, retracing the path Tailgate had fled along when the mech on the veranda startled him. Before they reached the steps to the veranda and ballroom, however, Rodimus (who was leading) veered off into a cluster of stalagmites; it seemed there was a very narrow, twisty path concealed between the rocky spires.

Tailgate eyed the route warily - a thin passage in a cave had led to all sorts of trouble last time. “This a shortcut to somewhere?”

“The Spires,” Atomizer replied, stepping up behind Tailgate and offering his arm. “The main paths here like to take the long, scenic route.”

Slightly bemused at the unfamiliar, formal gesture, the minibot nevertheless looped his hand around the taller mech’s elbow, allowing himself to be led forwards. They walked in silence for a short while, before Atomizer spoke again.

“Did Swerve manage to glitch out your audials yet? I know some people think the nonstop talking’s cute, but honestly, he needs to learn to share.”

“To share… me?”

“Well, yeah. You heard everyone back there - we’ve got questions! And now, finally, someone who knows the answers.”

The shortcut ended, opening onto one of the wider paths through the gardens. Out of the corner of his optic, Tailgate saw Windblade trying to catch up to him, her mouth already open as though to speak. Even as he registered this, Atomizer suddenly picked up his pace - still with Tailgate clutching his arm, so that the mini almost had to jog to avoid being simply dragged.

“... I'm guessing you've got questions too, then?”

Tailgate mentally braced himself, already trying to string together flimsy bits of falsehoods that might be convincing enough to prop up his Primal Vanguard lie. He got the feeling that of all the mecha in their little tour group, Atomizer would be the shrewdest and the hardest to fool. The way he'd zeroed in on Tailgate with such casual efficiency attested to that.

Atomizer must have something up on the surface that he really wanted to know about.

“Like I said, we all have stuff we want answering. Me, I'm more curious about where Cyclonus found you - and how you even made it down here in the first place.” Tailgate’s surprise must have shown in his optics, because the taller mech laughed and continued. “I mean, who knows what Cybertron looks like nowadays? Who cares? We're all down here, and that's not changing anytime soon, so there's no point getting all wistful. But _you_ are a change. And honestly, I just want to know how Cyclonus reacted to that.”

Tailgate had initially felt a surge of relief upon realising that he wouldn't have to dodge any more questions just yet - only for his relief to ebb as Atomizer kept speaking.

“I… don't think Cyclonus would want me talking about what he's said, behind his back.” The memory of choosing between service or imprisonment - over one broken crystal - swam to the forefront of the minibot’s CPU. “And, well, didn't Swerve say that you guys tend to leave him -”

“Hey, Tailgate!” That was Rodimus - who, it seemed, had just saved Tailgate from an awkward encounter with Atomizer, in much the same way that Atomizer had done the same with Rodimus earlier. The mini decided there and then that they were both far more trouble than they were worth; resolving to stick closer to Windblade and Swerve.

But Rodimus was still hovering a little further up the path, clearly waiting for an acknowledgment. Tailgate sighed, disentangled himself from Atomizer, and marched forward.

“So, the gardens are kinda boring,” the speedster began, “but check this out.” He grabbed Tailgate’s servo and pulled him through a rocky archway - and the mini found himself staring at a new viewpoint of the creepy towers from his initial journey through the city.

Rodimus’ expression was expectant, though, so Tailgate tried for an overawed response.

“Wow! They, uh… certainly are… huge… Look, okay,” he huffed, as Rodimus’ smile started to look rather fixed out of confusion, “I've seen these before. I came this way on my way to the palace.”

“Oh! Nightbeat said he'd seen someone walking through here that night!” That was Windblade, who'd ambled up behind. “He told us because he thought it was a bit suspicious -”

“Windblade,” said Chromia, “Nightbeat thinks everything is suspicious.”

“- Because he didn't recognise you, and usually most of us go to the parties, when they happen. He's not much of a people person, though, so he stays home.” The femme now turned, squinting up at one of the nearest towers. “He lives just up there, but - no, I can't tell if he's home right now.”

“Wait,” Tailgate said, startled. “People actually _live_ in these?”

“Yes?”

“But they're so…” He glanced warily at the fingers of rock cradling the nearest spire. “... _Weird_.”

Windblade followed the line of his gaze, scrutinised the strange, organic-looking rocks, then twitched her wings in a shrug. “Stalagmites grow everywhere down here.”

“Not like that, they don't,” Tailgate replied archly.

The femme paused for a minute, as though she hadn't considered that before - but as another moment passed something unfocused in her optics, and she shrugged her wings again before motioning him onward.

“C’mon. If you've already seen this place, we’ll take you to the Courtyard.”

“And my bar!”

“And Swerve’s bar. Atomizer! Try and keep up - get off your comm. if you don't want us to leave you behind!”

Tailgate allowed himself to be swept along by the others, but couldn't help a worried glance at Windblade. She'd seemed concerned by Tailgate’s comment for the briefest of seconds - what was it that had changed?

 

* * *

 

 The Courtyard was what the Upper Tetrahexians called their marketplace, apparently. It also seemed to be the unofficial town centre - Tailgate got the feeling that the title by rights belonged to the cave with the towers, but where that cavern had been deserted, this one was much more lively. By the standards of how much activity the mini had seen so far in the town, in fact, it practically bustled.

He was introduced to a string of people in rapid succession, trying his utmost to commit them to memory; whilst simultaneously dodging questions about Cybertron that he couldn't answer without causing an upset.

There was Ratchet, who'd run the clinic in town as long as anyone could remember (even before the sinking), and had trained Velocity for her position at the palace. First Aid was his assistant - a visitor who'd been caught in the disaster, and who received a reprimand from his boss for sneaking down to meet Tailgate when he was supposed to be on shift. Apparently, he'd left the clinic in the care of someone named Ambulon.

Grapple and Hoist, two more locals, greeted Tailgate warmly, as did Brainstorm - although the latter had to be shaken off quite quickly once he heard about the mini being a supposed bomb disposal expert. Turned out Brainstorm was a weapons engineer by trade; the jargon he'd begun to spout had made Tailgate feel dizzy and, worse, almost blown his cover.

Next came Perceptor, reserved but devastatingly polite - who, in contrast to Brainstorm, was hastily fed the Primal Vanguard line to stave off an interrogation about scientific advancements in Tetrahex’s absence.

After that, Tailgate started to lose track. There had been a Mirage, somewhere, he was pretty certain, and a… Mainline? Mainframe? Main-something, anyway - and a sort of cluelessly cheerful mech who Tailgate was pretty sure had had an aquatic alt mode, but whom he really couldn't remember anything else about. Not to mention a slew of others who he'd promptly forgotten altogether.

It was only once all these introductions were through that Tailgate got a clear enough view to look round the Courtyard itself. He himself was still being watched by a small crowd that had lingered nearby after first saying hello; he ignored the stares for the time being, in favour of his own inspection.

The cave they all now stood in stretched high over their heads - but would still have been dwarfed by most of the Spires, Tailgate was sure. For one thing, he could actually see the ceiling. Clusters of lights were strung from the uneven roof: old-fashioned lanterns, softer than the lamps in the gardens, and wrapped in metal filigree. Together, they bathed the space below with a comforting, golden warmth.

The light also set glittering all the stalls that made up the marketplace; and the mecha who moved among them. Some walked arm in arm, others in groups, or alone, but everyone sported jewel-bright, sparkling plating, and many had intricate painted designs curling up their limbs or over their chassis. Still others had hung delicate adornments on themselves: a fine golden chain looping under an audial, threaded with tiny gems; a crystalline cluster worn like a badge; a trio of brilliant glass baubles dangling from each shoulder.

As far as Tailgate could see, the same sort of accessories were up for purchase… except that nobody seemed to be manning any of the stands. Instead, apparently, the social norm was for people to stroll around, inspecting the wares on offer - then simply take what they pleased. The mini watched a trio of primary-coloured mechs, chatting amongst themselves the entire time, peruse a stall before extracting a length of shimmery holographic fabric. The yellow and red mechs held it up to the blue one’s plating - checking how well the rich purple of the fabric matched - then handed it to him and wandered quite nonchalantly over to the next display. No currency changed hands so far as Tailgate could see; nor did anyone react in any way to what the mechs had done.

Frowning, he turned to one of the mecha still clustered close by - Perceptor, standing on the edge of the group, was his target.

“So… people can just take whatever they want from these stalls? You guys don't use currency?”

Perceptor quickly detached himself from his current conversation and turned to nod at Tailgate. “Everything available in the Courtyard is free, yes. Fuel, trinkets, tools - if you're looking for something specific, you'll find it eventually.”

“Does that mean you don't have jobs? I know Swerve said he was a bartender, but”-

“Oh, we all still have work.” Perceptor raised an eyebrow, as though the implication that he wasn't employed was of mild offense. “Or most of us, anyway. Apart from anything else, it staves off boredom. And the Courtyard is our payment, really. We keep services running that the town needs, and we don't have to pay for fuel, board, or entertainment.”

Tailgate took another look around at the shoppers in the cave, every last one pristine and sparkling.

“And you're a… scientist, right?”

“A physicist, yes.”

“So what about the labourers and the… the cleaners?”

Perceptor blinked. “What _about_ them? We don't have any. That's what drones are for, surely?”

“Oh.” Tailgate’s visor did some flickering of its own as he rocked back on his heels - the momentum of his sway so powerful that he almost had to take several steps away from Perceptor to balance.

He wasn't so sure he'd have minded; he needed time to process his disappointment. For a moment, Upper Tetrahex had seemed like a place where he might belong, even outside of his false persona - where a waste disposal worker would be treated just the same as all these bright, brilliant mecha.

Apparently, that wasn't to be.

“Ah, while you're here,” Perceptor began, and Tailgate felt his spark sink further. “I know you were off-planet a lot, but you might still have caught wind of what happened to”-  
  
“Sorry, I need to find Swerve,” Tailgate said, a little louder than perhaps necessary. “He was going to show me his bar...”  
  
Without waiting for a reply from the other mech, he turned and hurried deeper into the cave. The stalls weren't exactly clustered close together – winding paths of tiny lights, embedded in the floor, connected them, but the market was spread over a good deal of space. Still, Tailgate had lost sight of Perceptor by the time he reached the third stand.

  
This one displayed strings of beads, arrayed in piles that heaped upwards before spilling over the sides of the table like waterfalls. Everything was a jumble of colours and materials: blue, green, red, purple, silver, gold, white, in metal and crystal - and even, unless Tailgate was mistaken, hard light. All shapes and sizes, too; from giant, multicoloured blown-glass spheres to lines of tiny pearls cast in bronze.

Tailgate stared at it all, and pondered what fraction he'd be able to afford with his entire life savings.

“See anything you like?”

Scrap. He'd thought looking absorbed in his shopping would put off more questioners - apparently, some people down here were determined to the point of downright rudeness.

“Look,” the mini sighed, turning to face this newest interloper. “I know there's stuff you want to ask me, but I'm kinda busy”-

“Whoa, hey, who said anything about questions?”

By the time Tailgate got a look at the mech, he already had his servos raised in protest. He looked genuinely startled, as though he'd not been expecting such a fiery retort from a minibot. Brilliant blue eyes were wide above a yellow mask – and the way he was leaning backwards slightly, still not lowering his hands, gave Tailgate a clear view of his red, white and blue paintjob. A bit on the flashy side, sure... but nicely polished, and very, very pretty.  
  
Tailgate swallowed. See anything he liked, indeed.

“What... uh... what did you want from me, then?”  
  
The newcomer shrugged. “Just to talk, I guess. I'm Getaway, and _you_ … you seem like a pretty interesting person to know. Primal Vanguard, bomb disposal, which is impressive enough; but somehow you're still so cheery and cute on top of that! And ... well, I figure you might have some questions of your own. I'd be happy to answer them.”  
  
Well, that made for a refreshing change, if nothing else. Although... if this pretty stranger was interested in hearing about Tailgate’s non-existent job with the Primal Vanguard, the mini suddenly found himself a lot more willing to spin a few lies.  
  
That could wait until he'd found his feet in Upper Tetrahex, Tailgate decided. Right now, he was being offered more information than anyone had given him since Swerve’s monologue; and he'd take anything that made this town feel a little less confusing and creepy.

  
The only problem now was knowing where to start. Casting his optics around, Tailgate’s gaze landed back on the pile of lavish jewellery.

“So…” Tailgate hummed, considering, as he toyed with the end of a string of beads. “This whole thing where you can take whatever you want,without having to pay - sounds like a pretty good deal. Almost too good. Is there a catch?” Given his own deal with Cyclonus, he wouldn't be surprised.

Getaway laughed at that. “I knew you were sharp. Funnily enough, nobody's found one yet, though not for lack of trying.” He paused, tilted his helm to the side, and seemed to consider something. “Maybe what we really need is a fresh perspective. If there is something funny about this place, it won't get noticed by people who’ve been here since day one.”

“I mean, I've seen plenty of weird things already, but I get the feeling ‘weird’ doesn't exactly work the same way down here.”

“Yeah, you've got that right. These stalls, for instance” - Getaway swept an arm out to indicate the marketplace at large - “nobody actually knows where any of the goods come from. They just show up, and we don't question it. But that's weird, isn't it?”

“Stranger that you haven't asked,” said Tailgate. “I guess Cyclonus would probably just glare at you if you did, but it's only party clothes, right? He doesn't seem the type to care much about that sort of thing. He might just tell you.”

“... You're on speaking terms with him, huh?”

“Is that wrong?” Tailgate felt a small bubble of panic well up, remembering Swerve's less than favourable opinion of the elusive Lord. Was it possible people could turn on him, if they found out Tailgate was scheduled to meet privately with their leader?

“Hey, no, it's fine!” Getaway insisted. “Just surprising. And… well…” He glanced around, apparently checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning in a little closer. “If anyone does kick off about it, they can answer to me. Not that you'll need it, being Primal Vanguard and all, but it's best to have backup, yeah?”

“Oh, definitely,” said Tailgate, relieved - perhaps a bit too much so. Hastily, he added: “If I do get in trouble, I could use someone who actually knows his way around this place.”

“Looks like we’ve got a pretty great deal going already then,” Getaway said, optics crinkling in a smile. “Now - I know you know nobody buys anything down here, but even so…”

He held out his arm, elbow crooked.

“... Can I escort you to get a drink?”

 

* * *

 

 _Swerve's_ was no trouble to locate in the end, due to it being the only bar in town. And the wholly unimaginative name, as Tailgate pointed out to Getaway’s amusement.

“Guess it's a good thing he's more creative with his drinks.”

Inside, it was even busier than the Courtyard - _Swerve’s_ , it seemed, was the centre of this little community. From what Tailgate had seen of the way its proprietor was treated, providing said service was a bit of a thankless task; he gave Swerve an enthusiastic wave as he entered, and received an equally energetic, if slightly bemused one in return.

Now Tailgate was seated at the large, round table in the centre of the bar, and somehow found himself holding a court of sorts. The little group who'd shown him round earlier were all in attendance; along with Perceptor, Brainstorm, the aquatic mech (Riptide, apparently)... and sat beside Tailgate, with one servo lazily propped under his own chin - Getaway.

Tailgate had cherry-picked a few harmless questions to answer, but everyone was still clamouring to know more - no matter how he tried to steer the conversation into safer waters. He could manage stories about people's home cities, or old books or movie series, long finished, that his drinking companions had been cut off from halfway through. (Even if it sometimes meant going off later reboots and adaptations. He'd never had much appreciation for literature or classic cinema).

He did not, however, fancy his chances with either Brainstorm or Perceptor: both kept trying to catch his eye, for which he was deliberately avoiding them. Not even Cyclonus would be able to help with some of the things they wanted answering.

As the talk wore on, Tailgate began to chafe under all the questioning - and he felt that there were only so many times he could use his drink as an excuse not to speak. As Rodimus leaned towards him across the table yet again, the mini in turn swung in his seat and stood, a farewell formulating in his vocaliser. He'd claim that the tour had tired him, that he wasn't quite recovered yet…

Getaway’s servo landed on his arm.

“Hey, Tailgate. Hearing about Cybertron’s been great, but… have you got any stories about the Primal Vanguard?”

“Ah…” Tailgate felt compelled to hover for a second, determinedly not focusing on the point of contact between him and Getaway. “I dunno, Getaway. Aren't you all a bit sick of hearing me talk by now?”

It was a weak protest - Tailgate wasn't entirely sure that he _wanted_ to protest, if it meant disappointing his new friend.

“I’m sick of hearing you talk like an encyclopaedia,” said Getaway. “C’mon - I want to hear some proper _adventures!_ Much more interesting.”

“You mean _my_ adventures?”

“Aw, there's no need to act humble. Of course I do! You lot want to hear what Tailgate got up to in the Primal Vanguard, yeah?” Getaway addressed the table at large, and was met with a loud chorus of assent.

“You clammed right up last time we tried to ask,” Atomizer said, a slight accusatory tone in his voice. “Spill!”

For a second, Tailgate could feel himself freezing up again - until he caught the hopeful look in Getaway’s optics. The other mech’s EM field was just about readable as it thrummed with an edge of excitement; and though Tailgate was honestly baffled as to why Getaway would be so interested in someone like _him_ , he found himself turning inexorably back towards the group.

One of Getaway’s words lodged in his CPU.

_Stories._

Stories didn't have to be true. Quickly, he scoured his memory banks, dredging up the more recent movie releases that he'd watched. Something action-packed, but not too far-fetched… and he didn't have to use the whole plot. Just borrowing a thread here or there would do…

“Okay.” Tailgate stepped up onto his chair, the better to view his eager audience. “Who wants to hear about me saving a refinery from a Zeotopian warhead with two minutes on the clock?”

 

* * *

 

“Y’know, Scout, you are _full_ of surprises.”

“Pleasant surprises?”

Getaway’s optics twinkled. “The best. I mean, look at you! Nobody would guess you've done half the things you told us about tonight, but you have, and you showed us all up for that. Teach me to judge based on appearances.”

They lapsed back into silence after that, continuing on a meandering walk back to the palace. Swerve's bar was tucked away in the residential area of the town - which had the curious appearance of a fusion between a burrow and a fancy Iacon borough. Most of the houses were elegant, and lavishly built, but their columns and filigrees and gilding could only be glimpsed occasionally behind the great tendrils of rock that had extended upwards to obscure them. The effect reminded Tailgate uncomfortably of a giant cage - whether it was worse to imagine himself as the captive, or the entire city, he wasn't sure.

The road they were on sloped downwards in a loop: each of the streets in the residential district seemed to be arranged around a central conical structure. According to Getaway, this was supposed to mirror the mountains that had once stood behind the town. Swerve’s bar was perched right at the top, like a nest, and the walk home was taking its toll on Tailgate’s still slightly shaky legs; but he'd been warned off transforming by Velocity, until she could check him over again.

It didn't help that all that drinking to dodge questions had left him more than a little tipsy.

As the pair continued on their route, something in Taligate’s left knee joint suddenly gave out - with a yelp, he crumpled to the floor, skidding a few feet down the hill.

Getaway scrambled down beside him in an instant, nearly flattening himself against the ground to inspect the mini’s leg. Tailgate tried to bend his knee and push himself upright, but to his frustration found that once again, the attempt only sent him sprawling.

“... Frag,” he muttered with feeling, lying back and spreading his arms. Getaway sucked in a deep breath through his vents.

“Yeah, that's not good.” He squinted at the knee a moment more, before standing fluidly upright. Lying undignified on the floor as he was, Tailgate felt a little useless by comparison, even as he appreciated the other mech’s grace.

He was snapped from his thoughts abruptly by Getaway transforming.

“Here, Scout, think you can hold on? I can drive you back to the palace.”

Even as he rolled over to drag himself closer, Tailgate eyed the sleek - and very smooth - vehicle skeptically. “Depends where you want me to hold on.”

Getaway snorted. “Don't worry about that. We’re friends, right?”

Well, if he wasn't bothered by the potential for awkwardness, neither was Tailgate.

The larger mech did seem to sense that Tailgate perched a little precariously atop his alt, though - as he drove off, he kept a sedate pace, and made sure to avoid the roughest bits of the cave floor. For that, the mini was grateful - he'd have enough of a headache tomorrow morning (or, well, whatever passed for morning) as it was.

It took a while to reach the bottom of the street, but Tailgate didn't especially mind; it was nice to be able to look around slowly without being distracted by the strain in his legs.

Even if all the rock growths still creeped him out.

He expected Getaway to turn for the cave leading to the Spires, at the end of the road, and was surprised when the other mech veered off in entirely the opposite direction.

“Uh… you sure you're going the right way?”

“Oh, this is the shorter route,” said Getaway, unconcerned - though his voice did judder a bit in time with his engine. “This was what I meant when I offered to show you the ropes, y’know? The touristy way’s all well and good, but sometimes you just need to get around fast. I'll take you back to the palace through the Courtyard.”

Indeed, it was only about five minutes before the marketplace popped into view round the curve of a passage. It seemed deserted, now - apparently, this hour counted as nighttime down in Upper Tetrahex. At the entrance of the cavern, Getaway slowed.

“Think you can walk through here, Scout? I'm not a bad driver, but even I don't fancy my chances with all those trinkets.”

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” Tailgate agreed, pushing himself off Getaway’s roof. “I just- _whoa!_ ” His knee wobbled alarmingly as he tested it, and he had to latch back onto his companion’s altmode.

Getaway hummed in apparent concern. “Okay, maybe not. Grab that wall for a mo’ while I transform; I'll support you.”

Tailgate complied, and very soon found himself leaning into the taller mech, with both arms wrapped around one of Getaway’s. He tried to focus on the discomfort in his knee, and not the energon rising to his faceplates.

Thank Primus for mouthplates.

Getaway steered them around the edge of the Courtyard; making for the palace’s main door, where it sat just outside the crystal gardens. This had definitely been the right call, Tailgate decided - the mere thought of trying to drive through the gardens was anxiety-inducing, given where simply walking had gotten him last time.

As they passed the stall stacked with holo-fabrics, Getaway paused.

“Hold on, Scout - let me just…”

With his free servo, Getaway plucked at the corner of a bolt at the bottom of the pile. After a moment’s careful jiggling, his quarry started to slide free: a length of gleaming, pale gold; semi-translucent and fluid as water. He pulled it off the stand with a flourish, caught it over his forearm, then held it out towards Tailgate.

“This should bring out the blue in your paintjob.”

“I”-

Somehow, it hadn't really occurred to Tailgate that _he_ could just take whatever he wanted. This offering probably would've taken several millennia to save up for, back when he was a waste disposal ‘bot.

_… Don't start believing your own stories, Tailgate. You still are. You're only kidding yourself._

“I… don't think that's something I could just wear out and about,” he said cautiously. “That is, I'm not used to dressing up every day?”

“Then save it!” Getaway replied cheerfully. “Wear it to the next party!” Here, he paused momentarily. “You are coming to the parties, right?”

The thought had lost its charm a little, now Tailgate knew he'd just be the centre of a circle of questions again… but only a very little. “Of course.”

“Great! Save the first dance for me, yeah? I can't wait to see how stunning you’ll look wearing this.”

And - standing in the Courtyard after nightfall, being showered with compliments by a pretty, gregarious speedster who seemed, inexplicably, equally impressed with him - Tailgate decided that he'd endure an entire night of questions from Brainstorm and Perceptor combined, if it meant dancing with Getaway.


	8. VII: The Great Wide Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels kinda surreal to be updating after a couple of months instead of, y'know, over a year. But! It's a good sort of surreal, and I already have the first bit of chapter 8 written! I have started at uni, which is gonna mean less free time, but equally I'm sitting on a bunch of new ideas so hopefully my update schedule won't... die, like it did before. orz
> 
> And I promise, promise, promise - there is a big chunk of an actual cygate scene in the next chapter...

Two days passed, and no summons from Cyclonus was forthcoming. Tailgate could feel a sliver of panic starting to edge its way into his spark; although he was very much enjoying all the trappings of his new home, its residents - and all his conversations with them - were a minefield. He could, for the most part, keep people distracted with tales of ‘his’ exploits. Indeed, this particular tactic felt like less and less of a chore every time he paused to collect his thoughts mid-story, and caught Getaway gazing raptly at him, optics bright.

It was still exhausting work, though, and Tailgate had no way of knowing if he'd already accidentally crossed a line or several, with what he'd told people. He could only hope that Cyclonus’ lack of interest in a meeting meant that so far, the other mech hadn't found any fault in Tailgate’s actions.

At least Getaway was usually around to steal him away, when he got too overwhelmed.

Most of the time, anyway.

Right now, however, Tailgate was descending the grand palace staircase with Getaway nowhere in sight. The other mech had mentioned something vague about meeting up at an abandoned tunnel, where people liked to go racing - but Tailgate wasn't sure if he wanted to take up the offer. If he participated, everyone would expect him to be a speed demon and a daredevil, based on his stories. If he sat out to avoid exposing himself, that too would be out of character, as far as they knew.

And he didn't really want to deal with any more problems on top of…

“Rodimus, look, I'm sorry, but I'm trying to find”-

“Please, Tailgate. I mean, I'm sorry too, but are you sure you don't know _anything_ about Nyon?”

“You know I was offworld a lot.” Tailgate took several steps backwards down the stairs, optics fixed on Rodimus almost as though he was facing down an agitated turbotiger. Thankfully, the speedster wasn't exactly chasing him - just hanging forlornly over the first-floor balcony rail. Which, honestly, might have been worse. Or at least harder to ignore.

“I'd really love to be able to tell you _something_ , I just”-

“ _Psst!_ ”

Tailgate gave a start at the sudden hiss, then glanced up at Rodimus to see if he'd heard it too. The other mech didn't seem to have reacted at all; which wasn't necessarily encouraging, if it meant Tailgate had somehow imagined something that sounded so real.

Then, in the furthest corner of his optic, he spotted a servo beckoning to him, only just visible between the banister bars of the staircase he currently stood on.

Rodimus was watching Tailgate by now, looking confused at his sudden pause and prolonged silence. The minibot rebooted his vocaliser.

“Sorry, I, ah. I just got a message from Getaway - he says he wants to meet up.”

Even as he said this, Tailgate was sprinting down the last of the steps. By the time Rodimus jerked into action and began to give chase, Tailgate had reached floor level - he turned immediately and dashed for the spot where he was pretty sure he'd seen the servo.

He'd guessed right. As he skidded into the shadows beneath the staircase, someone seized his wrist and dragged him into an alcove.

Someone minibot-sized - but that hadn't looked like Swerve’s hand, and Tailgate had yet to meet any other proper minis around Upper Tetrahex. He also might have just walked into someone's trap; for all he knew, this rescuer had more questions for him than Rodimus.

As he listened to Rodimus wandering around the entrance hall, calling Tailgate’s name, he decided on balance that he wouldn't really mind too much if that was true.

Eventually, the speedster gave Tailgate up as a bad job and mooched out of the main doorway; probably headed for the racing circuit.

“ _Another_ daring rescue!” a voice exclaimed, right in Tailgate’s audial. He yelped, and jumped backwards - but unfortunately, jumping backwards in this situation meant jumping right onto the pedes of his saviour. There was a curse as he was shoved off said pedes, and then a series of rhythmic clanks that might've been someone hopping around clutching their foot.

Tailgate turned around, and was confronted with a pair of reproachful, bright blue optics shining through the gloom, almost exactly at his eye level.

“I'm sorry,” he told them. “But you _did_ kinda scare me. And, uh, thanks for getting me away from Rodimus.”

“Thanks for giving me a bit of entertainment around here, for once,” said the optics. “I hate the palace. I've explored almost every inch of it, and there's absolutely _nothing_ worth stealing, or that points to sordid goings-on in the distant past. Which, honestly, should get it disqualified from being a palace.”

Admittedly, Tailgate had no experience with palaces beyond this one, but - “Wouldn't that all be buried pretty deep, anyway? And if you hate the palace so much… why are you here?”

The optics squinted. “We’re _all_ buried deep, in case you hadn't noticed. And I'm here because my conjunx drags me to the library when she wants to keep me out of trouble.”

Tailgate felt the faintest sense of deja vu wash over him.

“... Neither of you are archivists, are you?”

That earned him a funny look. “Do you have to be an archivist to visit a library now, on the surface?”

“No, I - nevermind. Could you show me the library, too? I could do with lying low for a bit.”

The look changed, but it was still very much a Look, and Tailgate got the sense he was being sized up.

“You're not going to be a nuisance, are you? There's only really room for one nuisance in there, and I'm afraid I value my job security. Especially since Nautica only puts up with me for Lug’s sake.”

“I can promise that if you can promise me none of you are gonna interrogate me.”

“Done! I didn't give a flying frag what was happening on present-day Cybertron when I lived there. C’mon!”

The other mechanism seized Tailgate’s servo all of a sudden and started dragging him further into the shadows. He wasn't left with much choice other than to stumble along behind, despite still having some reservations.

“What about your conjunx? And this Nautica? Won't they want to talk to me?”

“Nah. Lug goes to the library when she needs a break from talking, and Nautica’s too polite-slash-awkward. And if anyone else comes in, you can hide in the stacks.”

Their steps were echoing now, but close at hand; Tailgate guessed he was being led through a small tunnel.

“Should I put my headlamps on?”

“I wouldn't. I tried putting a few lanterns up here once, and Lord Cyclonus had them all taken down again. I don't think he likes people visiting this part of the palace, so try not to draw attention.”

Tailgate’s guide slowed as they said this, their own words apparently serving to sober them up a little.

More sober, however, apparently did not mean less forceful.

“I don't know _why_ he's so fussy about it, though! Like I said, he's got a shameful lack of ancient, banned books, or mysterious relics - no self-respecting library I've ever visited has been as boring as this one.”

“Why would anyone keep mysterious relics in a library?”

This time, Tailgate was treated to a new Look from over his companion’s shoulder - their optics were slanted knowingly.

“You haven't been in many libraries, have you?”

There was a click in the darkness, and moments later, a chink of the brightest light Tailgate had seen in Upper Tetrahex split the gloom. It dazzled; unlike the harsh, yellowish lamps in the crystal gardens, this was pure and blinding white. For a moment, Tailgate was half convinced that his new friend had found not a library, but a secret conduit to the surface.

Then he was once again seized by the servo, and yanked unceremoniously through the door - and he came to understand why his optics had been assaulted.

The library was cylindrical, vast, and vaulted; curved ceiling extending proudly upwards like the nose of an inverted space shuttle. It was also - every wall, every shelf, every graceful arch where a window wasn't - pristinely, blindingly white. Lamps of all shapes and sizes were dotted about the room, seemingly accumulated over a long time out of necessity, and their light bounced off the walls and only intensified the gleam.

Tailgate rebooted his optics several times before he even dared himself to set foot inside - and the moment he stepped over the threshold, he promptly stumbled. His guide tugged on his arm once again to help him rebalance, and a glance down as he did so revealed a miniature mountain range of a floor: uneven shards of broken stone tilting and jutting upwards at drunken angles; the gaps between them pierced through by a riot of tiny crystal growths.

“Watch your step,” the other mechanism said, slightly belatedly. Tailgate nevertheless obeyed, picking his way over the ground with more care.

So focused was he on his task, optics trained downwards, that he didn't notice the approach of the other two mecha until one spoke.

“Oh! You're Tailgate, aren't you? I hope Anode’s not dragged you here against your will.”

That was a tall, purple femme, who stood with an armful of datapads and an expression of mild surprise. Her companion, Tailgate assumed, was Lug - judging by the fact that Anode had been pulled aside for a hastily whispered conversation, those two were the endurae in this little triad. They were an oddly-matched couple: Anode, angular and dynamic and muted green; Lug, square and sturdy and bright, optic-grabbing red.

They were also still busy talking. Tailgate turned back to their third wheel.

“I guess you're Nautica, then. How come I haven't seen you around the city?”

Nautica huffed a sigh, blowing out her cheeks dramatically.

“I would've come to say hello, but the library's just had another of its funny turns. Or somebody's had a funny turn in the library again. And since there's not much else to do down here, re-ordering datapads is what consumes my waking soul.”

The other two concluded their discussion and wandered back over; Lug strode brusquely up to Tailgate and offered her servo.

“Nice to finally meet you, and sorry if I've read the situation wrong and you were actually kidnapped by my conjunx.”

“Nautica said basically the same thing,” Tailgate replied, shooting Anode a suspicious glance even as he shook Lug’s hand. “Do I just look like the sort of mech who's easily led?”

“Do you want an honest answer to that?” said Anode, grinning.

“I wouldn't hold you completely to account, don't worry,” Lug told Tailgate placatingly. She gave Anode a look of her own - half fondness, half resignation. “She's a force of supernature when she gets an idea in her head.”

“Now you're just making up words.”

“Yes,” said Lug, with a serene smile at her conjunx. “This is what you drive me to.”

“So,” Tailgate said, while Anode made a face. “You guys hang out here… why, exactly? Neither of you seem shy or anything.”

Anode suddenly became very interested in the floor.

“Eh.” She shrugged. “Habit, I guess. Lug, dearest, want to go over that copy of _The Solstar Odyssey_ for the eighty-second time?”

For some reason, Lug rolled her optics - but she nevertheless grabbed Anode's servo and walked them out of sight between the shelves.

Tailgate sputtered in frustration. “Why does everyone keep doing that?! There's so many secrets down here, I'm getting dizzy trying to keep track of them all!”

“Oh, that's just Anode being Anode,” Nautica replied with no small hint of exasperation. “I could tell you why she clammed up, everyone knows it - but if you're after answers in general,” and here she turned to smile at Tailgate, “then there's nowhere else in the city that's a better place to start.”

Remembering his own vague thoughts of visiting the library when he'd first arrived here, Tailgate knew she was right - but as he gazed around at the soaring stacks, many times his own height, it was hard to decide what he wanted to know first.

… Perhaps if he simply started at the beginning?

“Do you have anything about the Lords of Upper Tetrahex?” he asked Nautica. “I'm still not sure _why_ Cyclonus is in charge. He doesn't seem to enjoy it.”

The femme snorted. “I don't think many of his subjects enjoy it, either.”

Naturally, there was an entire section on Upper Tetrahex's history and customs - but more surprisingly, it was located right up at the top of one of the stacks, where barely anyone was likely to notice it. While Tailgate browsed the lower shelves, scanning the titles of pompous-sounding datapads such as _Epistemus and Solomus: A Fable Advising the Tempering of Knowledge with Wisdom_ , and _A Treatise on the Credibility of Metaphor as Object, Volume VI: The Lenses of Alchemist Prime_ , Nautica scaled a set of narrow spiral stairs and retrieved a volume entitled: _A Succession of the Keykeepers of Upper Tetrahex_.

Tailgate squinted at the glyphs etched into the back. “Keykeepers?”

“It's an old term. Lord Cyclonus’ predecessors stopped using it once they started interacting more with the rest of Cybertron - ‘Lord’ was more universal.”

Tailgate carried the ‘pad to a bench beneath one of the window-arches. Some fragments of what must once have been leading still clung to the edges of the frame, either sticking out like funny metal twigs, or embedded in the rock that had replaced the glass. He positioned himself carefully, so as to avoid getting jabbed in the head by any of them, settled in, and began to read.

… And promptly gave it up as a bad job about five cycles later, unable to focus in the near-total quiet. Anode and Lug had long since vanished into the library's depths, and Nautica was making her presence known only via the occasional clank of shuffling footsteps. The silence Tailgate was left in wasn't _uncomfortable_ \- it was, in fact, rather pleasant. This library had a funny sort of reassuring air, as though it was well used to sheltering knowledge-seekers who weren't very certain of themselves. But after the constant chatter he'd been subjected to over the past few days, it was a little too much of a contrast for Tailgate to deal with; especially since he'd never done well with texts that used such flowery language and complicated phrasing. This book was clearly _old_ , too - older than the occupants of Upper Tetrahex, and not very fussed about modern conventions of grammar, or moderation when it came to capitalisation.

Tailgate made one last attempt at the paragraph he'd stopped on, mentally cursing the mediocre education protocols he'd been forged with.

_The City-State Tetrahex, being Ancient, Hallowed Ground, Chosen Resting-Place of Primus Epistemus, Patronised by Primus Solomus, knows the Clavis Aurea as Primus-Ordained Authority and Protector of the Populace, by extension, the Clavis Aurea knows the Keykeeper as the Voice of Primus Epistemus Upon Cybertron, and Bearer of the Blessings of Primus Solomus…_

If he had to read ‘Primus’ one more time, Tailgate mused, he'd stop believing it was a real word. He sighed, switched off the datapad, and rested it across his knees, letting his gaze travel over the sweeping, alabaster ceiling; following a pillar down the wall to where a glass case stood.

The mini carefully set his ‘pad aside and rose, keeping his steps light as he approached the case - partly to avoid causing a disturbance, partly to avoid crushing any crystals underfoot.

When he reached his goal, he discovered that the long, low, display contained a selection of curious _organic_ datapads; primitive ones, but clearly all bearing some form of writing. Some featured scratches etched into wood or stone, others ornately decorated glyphs in a riot of colours. Very few were illustrated: here and there could be seen a sun, an elegant figure, even a funny sort of rodent.

Tailgate brought his servos up to rest on the edge of the glass, enthralled. He'd had one or two colleagues who'd been given placements on starships, but never encountered them again once their assignments were over. And in any case, lofty ship-cleaners never returned to menial drudgery. To see so much evidence of other worlds laid out before him felt like the biggest embarrassment of riches he'd yet encountered in Upper Tetrahex - no matter that he couldn't read a word (if, indeed, these exotic writings used such mundane things as words); having actual alien artefacts under his very servos was worth more than a million bootlegged datapads about the stars beyond Cybertron.

He might have happily stood there for hours, just drinking in the sight, had Nautica not chosen that moment to sneak up on him.

“You admiring Lord Cyclonus’ souvenirs?”

The mini yelped, immediately lifting his hands from the glass; his first thought being that he'd been doing something he shouldn't. When he turned his head to find Nautica backtracking, one servo similarly raised, and the other clutching a pile of datapads almost protectively to her chest, he hurriedly reassessed.

“Sorry!” said the librarian. “You were in your own world, weren't you? I really should've recognised the symptoms.”

Tailgate waved off her concern - then, on a whim, casually leaned back against the case, just to see if he'd be chastised. Nautica didn't even twitch, which startled him almost as much as her sudden appearance had.

Although perhaps that wasn't fair. Nautica didn't seem the type to get snobby about who touched the artefacts she'd been charged with; even if she had known that the person doing the touching was just a nosy sanitation worker.

Now he just felt guilty for thinking so ill of her.

Partly due to that guilt, Tailgate moved away from the case and fell into step beside the femme, giving her some company on her rounds as she wandered off into the stacks again. He held his servos out in an offer of aid, and her optics brightened in what he hoped was pleasant surprise, as she handed him half the datapads she'd been carrying.

“So… where are those texts all from? Cyclonus can't seriously have collected them all himself.”

“Oh yes he can,” Nautica replied, bending to return a couple of the ‘pads to a shelf. “Apparently, he had a period when he was younger where he barely set foot on Cybertron at all, except to drop off his newest acquisitions. It'd take me an age to tell you where he found them all. There's pieces from cultures all over the galaxy - but it's mostly the more sophisticated organic worlds. Tlalakian, Nebulon, even early Magrathean…” She broke off, straightening up with a slightly wistful smile.

“Sometimes, I wish _I'd_ been the Keykeeper, if it meant seeing as much as he has. I've travelled, but never that far away from Cybertron; the furthest I ever went was Troja Major, and that's practically on the doorstep compared to where Lord Cyclonus’s been.”

_I've never even stuck my head out the door._

Tailgate almost wanted to tell Nautica as much, to make her feel a little better - but he was also starting to recognise warning signs that she could turn around with a question about his ‘adventures’ at any moment. As was his rather resigned wont, by now, he cast around for a different topic to distract her with. The sound of Anode laughing at something unheard, deeper into the stacks, gave him an idea.

“Does Lug visit because of the relics? Anode told me there wasn't anything interesting in here, but…”

“... Anode's second great love is hyperbole, yes.” Nautica sighed. “Just because all the datapads are a bit dry, and those organic texts are mostly scriptures, doesn't mean that they're worthless. Anode would know. But no - Lug comes in here because… well. Because she's like you, I suppose. Or at least, she was. Her and Anode both, until you came along.”

Tailgate frowned, unsure to which similarity she was referring. “Are you saying there's a prejudice against minibots, or something?”

“Oh, more specific than that.” The femme brought a servo up to rub distractedly at the back of her helm, seemingly deliberating what to say.

“Lug and Anode weren't here when Upper Tetrahex sank.”

Oh. Suddenly, Tailgate understood the motivation for Anode’s moment of altruism - and why he hadn't seen either of the pair around before now.

“So, uh… when did they get here?”

“Not long after we were trapped, honestly,” said Nautica. “It's been a good while since people were as eager to talk to them as they are with you now, but I don't think they've ever properly felt _part_ of the city, because they were treated like such oddities. Anode’s still a bit… touchy about it.” She glanced down at Tailgate, a faintly concerned angle to her mouth.

“I hope that doesn't happen with you. You're welcome to hide out here any time you like - we really should've extended the invitation to Anode and Lug sooner.”

Tailgate tilted his helm to the side. “Would Cyclonus have liked that? Are you sure he'd like me to keep coming here? Anode says he tries to stop people getting into the library.”

_I don't want him to think I'm stealing books now, too._

“Well, seeing as he was the one who brought you all here in the first place, that's his problem,” Nautica declared. “I'm not going to lock people out of a _library_ \- what kind of a monster does that?”

“Cyclonus, apparently.”

Nautica's optics went comically wide, as she realised what she'd just said about her boss. Honestly, Tailgate couldn't blame her - some instinct of his, honed by centuries working under less-than-pleasant supervisors, half expected Cyclonus to materialise from behind a shelf at the sound of his name. He supposed Nautica's fears lay more along the lines of Drift or Scourge having silently wandered into the library.

“I- I mean, he's not a _monster_ ,” said the femme, perhaps a little louder than necessary. “He saved Lug and Anode. And I'm guessing he did the same for you.”

Tailgate drew to a sudden halt, not at all sure about that assumption. “Define ‘saved’, please.”

“... Found you outside the city, and carried you inside,” Nautica said slowly. “That's what happened with the other two. We all saw. They appeared just beyond the old judicial district, but I think they fell from the surface further away. Lug was unconscious, and Anode was screaming”-

“And none of you went to help them?” Tailgate was surprised by how harsh his voice sounded. Strangely, however, Nautica appeared not to feel any shame at his words. She shrugged.

“Lord Cyclonus fetched them, anyway - I didn't see properly, but he came charging in out of nowhere and… he gave them some sort of blessing, I think. Not sure why that was necessary, but he did carry Lug straight to Lotty right after.”

“But before he showed up,” Tailgate pressed. “You could see them, and you all just stood there?”

He was, he realised, imagining everyone in their party attire, observing the spectacle of wounded Lug and her grieving conjunx like an interesting sort of play.

“What else could we have done? We couldn't have helped them.”

Tailgate was about to protest again - until he caught that same funny, glazed look in Nautica's optics that Windblade had developed when he questioned her. He settled for simply asking, “Why?”

“We just couldn't.”

The mini wondered if there was any way around this funny mental shielding that everyone seemed to have. He was tempted to keep questioning Nautica, to see if he could snap her out of it - but perhaps it would be better to plan a little first, in case Cyclonus caught wind of him asking odd questions. He wasn't sure that would be allowed under the terms of their contract.

“Anyway,” Nautica said, shaking herself slightly. “If Lord Cyclonus makes a fuss about you being here, I'll just sic Lotty on him.”

That startled a laugh from Tailgate, and Nautica grinned conspiratorially in return. The grin turned to a grimace, however, as they rounded the corner and came upon an entire aisle awash with carelessly-flung datapads; scattered with no rhyme or reason except perhaps to create the maximum mess possible.

“Oh, for the love of- !” Nautica groaned, shoulders slumping. Seemingly without thinking, she passed the rest of her cargo off to Tailgate and hurried forwards to attend to the mess. “This section’s usually _fine_ when the others get messed up! I had a _system_! Inconsiderate bloody poltergeist… or whatever it is that keeps doing this, I suppose.”

“See, normally this would be where I tell you it's probably just a prank,” said Tailgate. “But I'm not going to do that, because based on how crazy everything is in this city, I really won't be surprised if it _is_ a poltergeist.”

Nautica threw him a wan smile over her shoulder. “It might well just be a prank, to be fair,” she said. “People get… easily bored around here, from time to time. And honestly, it's been so systematic that I'm starting to think someone _is_ deliberately messing with me.” She shrugged. “It's probably Swerve.”

Tailgate cast around for a moment, until he located an ornate yet dented little silver table nearby. Depositing his armful of datapads, he dropped to the floor and started to scrabble around alongside Nautica. She was organising the strewn ‘pads into neat, logical stacks in the centre of the aisle - having no clue what these texts were even about, let alone how to categorise them, the mini left her to it, and set to retrieving the ones that had landed under the shelves.

“Ugh, and it had to be the geography section, too,” he heard Nautica grumble as he lay flat on his stomach, servo groping blindly in the narrow gap beneath a case. “All these ‘pads are so _dull_ ; I love reading, don't get me wrong, but even I draw the line at _20,000 Years In The Mithril Sea: A Log Of Annual Rust Yields_.”

“Mm,” Tailgate replied, distractedly; he'd just unearthed a find of his own by the tips of his digits, and was squinting to read the grimy glyphs on the back. “This one looks kinda interesting, though - _Sacred Sites of Cybertron_.” He flipped it over, hitting the power button, and watched as the table of contents laboriously booted up. “Hey - Tetrahex is in here!”

“I'm not surprised,” Nautica replied, reaching over to pluck it from his grasp and drop it on one of her piles. “Like it said in that ‘pad I gave you - Tetrahex is the ancestral home of the Clavis Aurea. Religious sect,” she added, in response to Tailgate’s puzzled look. “Why else do you think Cyclonus spends so much time in his private chapel?”

“Yeah, the mention of Primus every second word makes more sense, now,” said Tailgate. “I… uh… The language was a bit more archaic than I'm used to. So!” He injected a measure of false cheer into his voice, hoping that would be enough to force a subject change. “You're a bookworm - is that what made you want to become a librarian?”

“I'm afraid it's nowhere near as simple as _that_ ,” Nautica said. “Because, as you might have guessed, nothing is simple down here.”

She had returned to her task of sorting datapads; her servos, quick and practiced, depositing each one barely a second after her optics scanned the title and categorised it.

Tailgate wished he could read half as quickly.

“I'm like Swerve, really,” the femme continued. “You've met Swerve, haven't you? Of course you've met Swerve. We're both a bit displaced; I'm an engineer from Lower Tetrahex, but I got caught up in all this, and it's just my luck that the magic underground city magically fixes any problems that I might’ve been useful for, once.” She paused, with a contemplative frown. “Although given that my area of expertise is quantum mechanics, I'm not sure how much help I'd be, anyway.”  
  
“So why the library, if you're really a scientist? Wouldn't you rather hang around Perceptor and Brainstorm?”  
  
“No, I do - Brainstorm’s one of my amicae! But I love books almost as much as I love breaking the laws of the known universe. And I've more or less taken over from poor Minimus now, ever since…” At the sudden sound of footsteps, Nautica's helm snapped up, gaze fixing on a point above Tailgate’s head.

“Oh. Hello, Drift.”

Her voice was mild, but noticeably less welcoming than when she'd greeted Tailgate earlier. The mini shifted so that he could crane his neck up at the newcomer, and noted that, to his credit, Drift hadn't let Nautica's obvious coolness towards him take any sort of effect - he was smiling pleasantly down at both of them, optics bright.

Perhaps a little over-bright.

“I'm afraid I've got to break up the book club,” he said, focusing his attention on Tailgate as he spoke. “I've been sent to fetch you - Lord Cyclonus wants a meeting.”

 

* * *

 

_“Home sweet home! For like. Two weeks. Max. Please?”_

_Cyclonus sighed and shook his head - but he didn't bother hiding his smile, either. “You know, I could take offence at how desperate you are to leave again. I give you rooms at the palace,_ and _in the Spires, and you decide that you won't ever stick around long enough to appreciate them.”_

 _“I mean, I_ appreciate _them, sure,” said his Amica. “But I'll have much more time to_ appreciate _them later in life, when I'm too creaky and rusty to pilot a ship anymore.”_

_“Assuming your license isn't revoked long before that.”_

_The other mech responded with a cheerful, if very rude, hand gesture, then twisted around to yell over his shoulder._

_“Hey Scourge, you can stop fussing now! We’re in_ Tetrahex _! Nobody's gonna steal anything when they all have to bow and scrape to Cyclonus.”_

_Scourge straightened up, looking a little miffed, but he did leave the luggage on their hover transport alone - save a little nudge, to ensure it kept floating in the right direction._

_“I always say you can never be too careful,” he sniffed. “We're not in the upper city yet.”_

_“Scourge. We are literally on the bridge that leads to the upper city.”_

_“Still not_ technically _the upper city.”_

 _“Y’know what, why don't we ask the mech whose city it actually_ is _\- Cyclonus, are we in the upper bit right now, or not?”_

_“I wish you wouldn't do that.”_

_“Do what?”_

_“Talk about me as though I'm some sort of tyrant - or will be. You forget; I'm not even the Lord yet.”_

_“You_ sure _you won't go all power-hungry on us? I bet Scourge wouldn't mind - give him even more weight to throw around.”_

_“Hey!”_

_“_ Please _. Don't joke about this. It's… there's more to it than you realise. There are_ consequences _, if I get it wrong once I'm in power.”_

_“Jeez, okay. You're getting as heavy as Scourge’s luggage.”_

_Despite the other mech’s light tone, Cyclonus knew he himself was destined to be caught and pressed for further explanation later. Neither he nor his Amica were remotely comfortable discussing personal matters in public - when either of them got like this, extra discretion was required, but the truth would be had, one way or another._

_His Amica’s voice calling out put a stop to further such ‘heavy’ thoughts._

_“Nightbird! Hi! Miss us?”_

_Cyclonus’ helm snapped upwards - and sure enough, there at the end of the bridge, stood his mentor. Her servos were flying through motions, forming words; he caught the tail end of her reply to his friend, something like, “Perhaps not as much as I ought’ve.”_

_Nightbird certainly didn't look like a head of state. Standing a good deal shorter than Cyclonus; with her utalitarian frametype and its rounded edges and minimal kibble; the main body of her paintjob picked out in shades of grey, she could have passed as a member of practically any of the alt-mode classes that the new government was starting to mark out. Something in her air, though, set her apart. Not any mark of breeding or snobbery, but rather a weight that seemed to rest about her shoulders._

_She had her mouthplate up, as always, but her optics were smiling, even teasing. Cyclonus found himself relieved - too many times, he'd returned to Cybertron and seen Nightbird’s optics filled with an inexplicable sadness. Almost regret._

_But she seemed cheerful enough now, and her eyes brightened still further when Cyclonus strode purposefully forwards to take a knee at her feet._

_“My lady Keykeeper,” he intoned, as he had so many times before. “I ask your blessing.”_

_He kept his optics turned down, as was customary, but he felt a disturbance in the air above his helm, as one of her servos swept up to hover there. No verbal blessing was uttered. It couldn't be. Instead, Nightbird let her EM flare the barest fraction; fondness, pride, and a tinge of relief washed towards Cyclonus like a welcoming wave._

_By the time he rose again, Scourge had caught up - the blue mech stopped short and gave Nightbird a respectful half-bow the moment he saw her._

_The hovercraft was heeled like a turbohound at Scourge’s side. Cyclonus turned and - carefully - lifted a small, tightly-sealed crate from the top of the pile of boxes._

_**New acquisitions?** signed Nightbird._

_“From Taros Four and Abraxas,” Cyclonus said. “We didn't travel too far, this time.”_

_**Still far enough.** Her optics were now dim. She waved an attendant over, instructing them to take the crate, and to handle it carefully. **More for the Acolyte’s collection.**_

_Once the attendant had bustled off with their cargo, Nightbird turned back to Cyclonus._

_**None of your new words were stolen, I hope.** _

_“Of course not. Freely given, by the races we allied with.” He paused, not quite meeting her gaze. “Some, from Abraxas, were spoils of war - but still a gift from the winning side.”_

_“What he's leaving out,” Cyclonus’ Amica cut in, “is that we'd actually have been home_ sooner _if he'd just done a bit of looting after the final battle.”_

_Cyclonus and Nightbird fixed him with identical disapproving stares. Over his Amica's shoulder, Cyclonus noted Scourge looking both supercilious and smug._

_“That's not the way of the Clavis Aurea,” said Scourge pointedly. “To steal knowledge would be disrespectful to Epistemus, and by extension, Primus.”_

_“Huh. Fair enough. Not very_ pragmatic _though, is it? What about Solomus” - this addressed to Cyclonus - “ - would he want you to think quickly, and save time?”_

_Despite himself, Cyclonus gave a snort of laughter. Nightbird's expression, still slightly reproachful, turned on him; he cleared his throat._

_“Well, however I collected those manuscripts, they're here now,” he said. “And here they'll stay.”_

_**But not you,** Nightbird replied._

_Strangely, she didn't look too unhappy about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift is basically becoming my anti-interesting-information weapon, isn't he? ;p
> 
> We're reaching the point now where I'm starting to include pre-planned scenes, instead of just groundwork that I had to bash out, so have an inspiration song for this chapter's flashback: My Father's Father, by the Civil Wars! :)


	9. VIII: As Admired As You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so FINALLY, we have another cygate scene! Really sorry to have kept you guys waiting on that one, Tailgate kept running off to do other things. :p I also have like 1/3 to 1/2 of the next chapter already written, so hopefully it won't take too long before another update happens? 
> 
> (Also, Unicron is now female in this AU - doesn't affect the plot in any way, but I mistyped it as 'the Unmaker HERself' and then people convinced me to keep it. ;)).

_Since Scourge’s arrival in Tetrahex, Nightbird had been leaving Cyclonus to his own devices more often than not. Cyclonus supposed this was an attempt to persuade him to foster a stronger bond with his new companion; indeed, as the Acolyte of Tetrahex, and Nightbird's future successor, he was perfectly happy to fill the role expected of him, and devote some measure of his time to the newcomer. Sometimes Cyclonus would spar with Scourge; or kneel at prayer while Scourge watched; or offer an invitation to sit in the library while he himself practiced - with the aid of Glyph’s meticulously organised collection - what was, in essence, the very purpose of the Clavis Aurea._

_(Of course, none of Cyclonus’ forays into these books, which had sat for so long on their same dusty shelves, yielded anything of note; discounting his own better understanding of his duties. Nor was he expected to expect more than this. He was the Acolyte, he was still largely untested - and the steady flow of new texts that in days long past had been said to pour into the library, thanks to the efforts of Clavis Aurea adherents around the globe, was now a mere trickle. Everything had been picked over time and again by Acolytes of yore, and each text was bled dry of its secrets, until all that remained was a string of answers to be uncovered by rote. Like the sparring, this was mere exercise)._

_Scourge, too, was perfectly happy to accept Cyclonus’ invitations, and ask for nothing more. He hailed from one of Vos’ noble houses; they both were accustomed to the notion of What Was Done, which was to say, raising neither complaint nor query to those who outranked you. And Cyclonus outranked Scourge, whose House, though noble, was only minor, and whose standing within said House was low._

_To own the truth, there were occasions when Cyclonus would've preferred one of his invitations to be met with a refusal screamed in his face and a punch, over Scourge’s eternal, oh-so-proper acquiescence._

_Sometimes - as he was now - he would deliberately push his designated companion (and, though it was never spoken of outright, intended amica endura) to the very edge of boredom, sure that Scourge must run out of patience eventually._

_Scourge had been sat on the other side of their table in the library, calmly reading, for the past six hours; and though under normal circumstances Cyclonus thought himself equally capable of silently perusing datapads, he also did not consider these to be normal circumstances. An itch had crawled into his CPU, insisting that Scourge should have uttered some sort of complaint by this point - or even simply gotten up and wandered off in search of a more interesting pastime, without a word to Cyclonus._

_Yet Scourge continued to sit, and to read, and Cyclonus knew that the other mech would not move until his companion - his superior - deigned to rise from the table._

_It irked him. There came a point where What Was Done went too far._

_With the tiniest huff through his vents, Cyclonus set down his own datapad and turned towards Scourge, opened his mouth - then was promptly distracted by movement in his periphery._

_Nightbird. She looked especially solemn today, but seemed to be trying to hide it - apparently unaware of her dim optics, or how tightly her servos were clasped. Cyclonus could tell she was struggling to keep her shoulders from slumping out of their ramrod posture._

_**Cyclonus.** _

_Upon seeing his name, he rose to his feet and inclined his head, with Scourge following a nanosecond later._

_**I've been issued a summons,** Nightbird told them, on your behalf. **Both of you. You're to attend the Iacon Flight Academy, by government order.**_

_Cyclonus reset his optics. “... I'm sorry?”_

_Scourge was wearing an expression of the same surprise Cyclonus felt. This was unheard of - certainly, for as long as the Acolyte could remember, Cybertron’s senate had been in something of an upheaval, but this marked the first time the fallout had reached the isolated little bubble of Tetrahex. And such an odd request, too. What great need did the government have of two young, upper-class fliers, that such a summons was required?_

_**It seems to be a universal thing,** Nightbird signed now, demonstrating that uncanny ability she occasionally possessed, of appearing to read Cyclonus’ thoughts. **Anyone with a flight-capable alt mode, sparked after a certain point. I could pull some strings and have it waived for you, Cyclonus, but I don’t know if…**_

_She dropped her servos, shoulders twitching into a slight, apologetic shrug. Scourge, understanding, bowed his head - but before he could utter his acceptance of the situation, some impulse pressed Cyclonus into speaking._

_“There’s no need to make me exempt. I’ll go with Scourge.”_

_Even with her mask, Nightbird managed to look stunned, and almost fearful at the same time._ **I’m not sure that’s wise. This new establishment is starting to be very…** _she waved her hands aimlessly for a moment, before executing a forceful gesture_ **_…_ particular _about religious expression. They may not take kindly to what they see in Tetrahex, or even what they already know; I don’t want to draw attention to us. I certainly won't leave you vulnerable in Iacon._**

_A small huff escaped him at Nightbird’s word choice, and Cyclonus folded his arms. “You seem to have little confidence in your own teaching abilities.”_

_**Not enough to take chances, no,** Nightbird agreed. **Especially since the conscription is universal - but the summons I received was personalised. And sent to myself, instead of straight to you.**_

_“It’s an attempt to intimidate us.”_

_Scourge seemed to have detected a red flag in Cyclonus’ tone. “Then perhaps you should_ be _intimidated? My place here isn’t worth putting the Clavis Aurea in danger, when there’s so few of you left.”_

_“But what if they're testing us?” Cyclonus pressed. “If I back away now, they could take it as a show of weakness.”_

_When Nightbird looked unimpressed, he tried again. "Perhaps they meant to threaten us, but if they did, why go about it this way? It's too transparent._ Were _I harmed in Iacon, you'd know it was them, and they'd gain nothing."_

_**They could try and get information out of you.** _

_"How? I'd never disclose any of our secrets willingly, and for it to be unwilling they'd have to torture a sanctioned public figure."_

_**What about mnemosurgeons?!** Nightbird's optics had grown desperate, her signing sloppy and erratic. Scourge was watching her with some concern._

_"I'm in as much danger from that here. These people could easily have a mnemosurgeon sneak into one of your parties."_

_Quite suddenly, Nightbird's composure shattered before his eyes. Cyclonus watched her crumple, staggering as though from a physical blow, and realised that he'd accidentally struck deep at something once-buried._

_Yet even as her optics unfocused; even as she wrapped her arms around herself, and trembling fingers fluttered against her throat, in a bastardisation of her usual nervous tic, the jet couldn't muster an understanding of what to_ do _. Nightbird didn't break down like this. She was the Keykeeper. He was the Acolyte. Though the rules sometimes reached too far, it was clear at least that both Keykeeper and Acolyte ought not to display weakness, lest it endanger the safety of that which they protected._

_Cyclonus drew in a breath, took half a step forwards, and found himself unable to say anything._

_Before he could do anything truly useful, Nightbird removed the need for Cyclonus to help by removing herself from the library. Her frame still shook, and her eyes remained unseeing, but she turned and fled as though the Unmaker Herself was at her heels, clearly possessed of a desperately urgent notion._

_Mystified, and more than a little guilt-ridden, Cyclonus turned to Scourge, wondering if he should make his apologies and follow Nightbird. However - taking the initiative for the first time since Cyclonus had met him - Scourge responded by returning to his seat, retrieving his datapad, and fixing the Acolyte with a significant look._

_Perhaps he was right. Nightbird might not want a witness to her distress - Cyclonus didn't even know what he had said to cause it. He would only be a hindrance._

_He sat, and resumed his reading._

 

* * *

 

Tailgate had expected to be taken to some sort of throne room or council chamber; or at least a small parlour of some description, leading off from such lofty locations. Drift, it seemed, had other ideas.

Up the grand staircase they went, and onto the landing, where another flight of steps ascended from either side - and at this point, Tailgate had begun to head _along_ the landing, assuming that Cyclonus wanted to meet in the mini’s own rooms. Drift, with an amused but not unkind smile, called him back.

“He's up here.”

Tailgate had already been up the stairs that now led to his right - that way lay most of the guest habsuites, where Windblade and Rodimus and the other visitors from outside Tetrahex lived. From what he could see, the hall at the top was well lit, but deserted; everyone would be out and about at this point in their ‘evening’.

Which was perhaps for the best, as it meant nobody around to spot Tailgate being guided up the _other_ staircase that stretched back over above the entrance hall, ending at a gloomy balcony on which layers of shadow lay like dust. A bare smattering of weak light strained across from the guest wing, to alleviate the darkness - but it was a moment before the mini realised that the far wall of this landing also sported windows. Towering, floor-to-ceiling windows that somehow didn't just open onto solid rock, were actually filled with glass, and had a faint glow filtering through them.

Tailgate approached the nearest one and peered out; momentarily, on instinct, glancing upwards, as though the dark cavern ceiling might have been transmuted into a clear night sky since the last time he'd seen it. Sure enough, however, nothing stared back but stalactites.

Down on the ground, he could make out the colourful treasure piles and winding, glittering paths of the Courtyard. With a jolt, Tailgate recognised Getaway’s paintjob among the ‘shoppers’ - and, as though sensing someone's optics on him, the other mech shifted, turning in the direction of the palace.

Tailgate darted off to the side, flattening himself against the patch of wall next to his window; but he wasn't certain he'd been quick enough. He _hoped_ he'd been quick enough. Quite apart from the embarrassment of being caught staring at Getaway, was the place he'd been caught staring _from_. Clearly, this part of the palace wasn't open to visitors - and Atomizer had been suspicious enough at the fact that Tailgate was on speaking terms with the Lord of Upper Tetrahex. If word got out that the minibot was also being afforded special permissions, it wasn't likely to make him any friends.

Nor would it keep him in Getaway’s favour, he was sure.

Perhaps he ought to bring that up with Cyclonus. Becoming a social outcast hadn't been part of this deal.

Speaking of social outcasts - Drift was now watching Tailgate curiously. The mini realised he was still plastered to a wall.

“... Is something wrong, Tailgate?”

“Doesn't matter,” Tailgate mumbled, mooching back over to stand next to the taller mech. “Got seen by someone I didn't want to.”

Drift nodded, though he still looked slightly confused. “Lord Cyclonus’ quarters are just along here.”

“His quarters?!”

“Yes?”

“As in, private, non-official-meeting, living quarters?”

“Is that a problem?” Drift sounded genuinely concerned. “I _could_ try talking to him, and ask him to reschedule”-

“No, it's - it's fine.” Tailgate brushed his plating down a little, attempting to cover for his outburst. He couldn't explain to Drift how very alien the thought was, of being entertained - well, questioned, but still _as a guest_ \- in the personal home of the head of a city-state.

Even if the head of city-state in question was as prickly and secretive as Cyclonus.

There was no time to explain now, anyway: Drift had passed into the shadows on the right of the furthest window, and Tailgate almost couldn't see him anymore. By the time he'd hurried to catch up, the white mech had come to a halt before a pointed stone archway, almost as vast as the entryway downstairs - but unlike the one downstairs, this arch was blocked by a pair of thick, embossed, silver-plated doors.

(Tailgate knew them to be plated, and not solid, because he could see patches where the coating had rubbed away; which struck him as odd. Why would Cyclonus not have noticed that, and gotten it fixed?)

Three loud taps on the metal pulled the mini from his thoughts. Drift waited a moment, fist still raised, as though he was expecting to have to knock again, before a voice from within the habsuite called, “Enter.”

The doors slid apart, revealing a squat hallway with rough stone walls, nearly as poorly lit as the balcony. To Tailgate’s left stood another, doorless archway that was completely dark; to his right, a funny sort of flickering, orange light beckoned through an identical opening.

Cyclonus stood in the centre of the right-hand room, arms folded and back ramrod straight - he scarcely blinked, as he watched Tailgate enter, then stand awkwardly just inside, waiting for some sort of cue. The odd quality and colour of the light behind him clashed against the gleam of the dark gemstones embedded in his plating, turning the purples and indigos harsh and oily.

At that thought, Tailgate realised why the light seemed out of place: it came from a fire.

Why would the Lord of Tetrahex use a _fire_ , when everywhere else in his domain was full of lamplight? Fires were messy, and dangerous. You burned them in the dregs of an oil can or an energon cube, when you hadn't gotten a placement in a few months and credits were low, or when your bosses were particularly stingy, and hadn't bothered providing the menial workers’ dorms with a light source; and you clustered close for light and warmth, and prayed that you hadn't left in enough fuel that the flames would mushroom up into your face. And by the strength of it, this wasn't a _fire_ , so much as a _blaze_ \- Cyclonus was either very foolish, or engaging in some sort of obscure practice that Tailgate had never heard of. Perhaps it was a Clavis Aurea thing.

Drift was standing at attention behind Tailgate now, but as the minibot watched Cyclonus dismissed his attendant with a small wave of his servo, never speaking a word. The white mech inclined his helm once, then turned to leave.

“Thanks for showing me the way here, Drift,” Tailgate called, just as the tips of the other mech's finials were whisking out of sight behind the doorframe. Drift stuck a servo back into the room to wave in acknowledgement, and as the hand disappeared again, Tailgate caught sight of Cyclonus’ customary frown deepening.

“You could've thanked him too, you know,” he told the swordsmech mildly. “Unless you're gonna tell me that politeness is a recent invention.”

“Why waste words?” was Cyclonus’ rather unsurprising reply. “He works for me, and I gave him a task. Talking to him afterwards would hold him up when he could be elsewhere.”

“There's easier ways of saying you're just not a fan of small talk.” Tailgate paused, deliberating. “... If _I_ worked for you, and I actually wanted to speak to you once my work was done, would I get the same treatment?”

Cyclonus arched an eyebrow. “Do you think I need a bomb disposal expert on my staff?”

Tailgate certainly wasn't going to be baited by that - before he even gave thought to his answer, he turned on his heel and marched further into the room, heading for the two tall, dark shapes before the fire that he was pretty sure must be chairs. His suspicion was quickly confirmed, and he sat. Only then did he speak.

“I think you need me to be whatever will keep your honestly _stupid_ amount of secrets safe.”

He received no reply, only Cyclonus seating himself in the opposite chair. Glancing to his right, Tailgate noted that the blaze lighting the room was in fact contained within a hollow in the wall, and behind a thick pane of roughly-cut glass.

At least the mech had some sense.

It became apparent very quickly that, despite his role as host, Cyclonus was not about to speak under his own volition. Tailgate reset his vocaliser, drawing his legs up into the high-backed chair.

“So… you've heard about the bomb disposal thing.”

“Clearly.”

“And?”

Cyclonus merely stared, the fire’s reflection on the glass of his optics rendering his expression even more impassive.

“Do you have any tips for making the whole Primal Vanguard thing more convincing?” Tailgate tried again. “I don't know all that much about them.”

“Strange, then, that you should choose such a cover story.”

“I was working under pressure, okay?” Tailgate huffed. “I didn't know they'd existed before the Functionists - and I didn't see you offering any help when we first made this deal.”

“I was expecting you to stick to what you knew,” said Cyclonus. “You're a sanitation worker, are you not?”

“Waste disposal,” Tailgate corrected, a note of heaviness in his voice. “Not quite the same thing. Messier.”

“Waste disposal mecha travel off-planet too.”

“Only on occasional flights, if we're lucky.” The mini sighed. “But then, I guess none of you would actually know, or care, about that.”

He'd hung his head, and thus was unable to read Cyclonus’ expression (not that he likely could've anyway, even if he _had_ seen it) - but he did hear the other mech’s contemplative hum.

“I'll have Scourge deliver you some books about the Vanguard. You will have to read them, though. One thing you _did_ promise was not to let anyone grow suspicious.”

Tailgate, thinking of the strange look that'd crossed the faces of everyone he'd voiced his own concerns to, was about to say that he didn't think anyone was _able_ to grow suspicious - then thought better of it.

Unfortunately, he'd already turned towards Cyclonus in order to speak. Instead, CPU working fast, he blurted out: “Couldn't you tell me anything about the Vanguard? Nautica said you were _actually_ always offworld, so I guess that means you were a real member.”

“It means no such thing.” A subtle tightening of Cyclonus’ mouth was the only hint that he was, apparently, affronted by this notion.

“What were you doing, then?”

“I was under the impression,” said Cyclonus, and there was something final to his tone, “that you were supposed to be the one telling the stories.”

“Then maybe you should ask me about something,” Tailgate said tartly. “I've been carrying this conversation since I got here, and I'm your _guest_. You glaring at me doesn't tell me what you want to know. I'm not exactly a mnemosurgeon, here.”

“I should hope _not_ ,” said the other mech, with an amount of venom that caught Tailgate off guard.

“... What's wrong with mnemosurgeons? I've met one, and he was nice. They're just glorified forensics experts.”

Once again Cyclonus, infuriatingly, refused to reply. Instead, he reached for his subspace, withdrawing a very familiar, if surprising, object.

Tailgate blinked. “You're bringing up the crystal _again_? But I thought I wasn't”-

“I decided that I owed you a more concrete timeframe,” said the other mech, setting the broken shard on a low table that sat between their chairs. “This is the reason for our arrangement, so I thought it might be put to some use.”

“Uh… _how_?” Tailgate asked, tilting his helm to the side. Looking at the crystal from a different angle turned out not to reveal any answers.

Cyclonus gestured to it, as though the solution were obvious. “This is a cluster of many gems. For each one, you will tell me something about the Cybertron you know. Once I have asked a question for every gem, I will consider our contract complete.”

Tailgate squinted. There had to be at least twenty such jagged pieces all fused together, like sharp, rigid petals. That was a lot of storytelling - and a lot of meetings like this one.

Still, as long as the summonses to Cyclonus’ presence came regularly, he might be looking at a stay no longer than twenty months. Twenty weeks, if he was extremely lucky; either way, it wouldn't be _too_ much time before he was out of here.

“Sounds fair,” said Tailgate. “So - what did you want to know about first?”

Cyclonus probably thought that he'd leaned imperceptibly forwards - but Tailgate still caught it.

“What became of Lower Tetrahex?”

“Well, the good news is, it managed perfectly fine without you.”

Although he'd spent all of a day in the town, Rewind had been a talkative enough companion that Tailgate actually had a fair amount of information to give to his host. And even though it meant a longer meeting - and left no time to move onto a story for the second crystal that day - in this instance, the mini found himself oddly glad. Cyclonus visibly relaxed, the more he heard about Lower Tetrahex's expansion, and its by-now-established reputation as a hub for scientific research and development.

“It has a really good science academy, now.”

The other mech nodded, and made a curious symbol with the fingers of his left hand, muttering something under his breath. A prayer of some kind?

For the first time, it dawned on Tailgate that Cyclonus had been responsible for the welfare of the lower city, too. He was clearly conscious of that fact, for its progression in his absence to be the first thing he asked about - did he feel as though he'd abandoned them? Was this some attempt to assuage his own guilt, or genuine concern?

Perhaps the mini was reading too much into it altogether.

He shuffled a little, getting more comfortable, preparing to move onto the next thing Rewind had told him about.

“Oh, and”-

“That will be all for today, I think,” Cyclonus said, causing Tailgate to lean back in his chair a little, none too pleased at the interruption.

“I haven't finished telling you about Lower Tetrahex.”

“It can wait. I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Well. At least that was nothing new. Maybe Cyclonus hadn't been so different, when he'd ruled Lower Tetrahex, to the higher-ups who had so often held Tailgate’s career in the palm of their servos.

Though if that was the case, why such concern for what became of its citizens?

Tailgate couldn't well voice that aloud unless he wanted to be tossed out of the room on his aft - but he wasn't about to acquiesce to a borderline command. Not here, where he could, it seemed, just about get away with such things.

“Where did all those organic texts come from, if you weren't in the Vanguard?” the mini asked as he slid from his seat.

Cyclonus turned to glare at him. “I thought we'd established that I'm the one who asks the questions. And… are you saying that you've been to the library?”

It was quite satisfying, to see him look even slightly ruffled.

“Well, if you're going to kick me out before I can give your questions a decent answer, the least you can do is answer one of mine,” said Tailgate. “ And yes, I've been in the library. You didn't tell me it was off-limits, and funnily enough I actually enjoyed my visit. Especially seeing those texts. Excuse me for thinking that learning new things is interesting.”

The glare from before deepened, and for a split second Tailgate wondered if he really was going to be tossed out of Cyclonus’ quarters on his aft - before something minute seemed to crumble in the depths of the other mech's expression.

“If you're going to keep asking about this…” the swordsmech grumbled; at least partly, Tailgate suspected, to save face. “I used to travel the galaxy, seeking knowledge. Scourge, and I, and- a friend. We went exactly where the Primal Vanguard didn't, visiting sophisticated organic races. _That_ is where my collection comes from.”

“And what, you stole the manuscripts off the organics?”

“No!” Tailgate took a step back, startled by the sudden aggression in his voice - and then, to the minibot’s further surprise, Cyclonus immediately checked himself. “No. We made alliances; often by picking sides in a conflict. That became our signature, after a while.”

He sat for a long moment, examining his servos, and just when Tailgate had started to think he was supposed to leave now, Cyclonus spoke again.

“Some didn't have properly developed space travel - I suspect we may have been the first prolonged contact that they made with an alien species.”

“Weren't there laws against that kind of thing?”

“Not back then. I am… It was not particularly honourable, what we did, inserting ourselves into their battles. Victory was too easy; we should have been fighting our own kind, other mechanical races that could match us evenly in combat. Not such frail, insignificant life forms.”

“Then why did you do it?” asked Tailgate. “If it didn't feel right? Was it just to win favours, to get hold of new pieces for your collection?”

Cyclonus gave a snort of mirthless laughter.

“That,” he said, “is the benefit of hindsight. At the time, the prizes were secondary. We were concerned with what we saw as glory.” The final word was almost spat.

“We thought ourselves gods. The most idiotic, arrogant young gods to ever walk the galaxy.”

That, it seemed was the final word on things - except that Tailgate still had one more query. He crossed the room, but as he reached the door he turned back, steeling himself.

“The third friend you mentioned - what happened to them?”

He was _certain_ this must be the same person Swerve had been about to name, that first day on the tour of the city.

Cyclonus met his gaze, and the glow of his optics was almost nonexistent; drowned by the light of the fire.

“He turned traitor to me. And the punishment for treason in Tetrahex is death.”

 

* * *

 

Though Cyclonus’ parting declaration stuck with Tailgate well into the next week, it was hard to dwell too closely upon it - or, indeed, upon any of what had been said in that firelit sitting-room. He was much too preoccupied with other matters.

A ball was coming up.

In a town where most everything seemed to be provided by magic, there was little preparation needed for the party; even so, little else was spoken of after the announcement. As far as Tailgate could tell, these events were about the most exciting things to happen down in Upper Tetrahex - and for some reason, they always had to be announced by Cyclonus. The mini supposed that made sense, considering it _was_ his ballroom being invaded.

What made less sense was the assurances, from multiple bots, that Cyclonus had never once been seen at any of the balls held in said ballroom.

“I mean, it could just be generosity, I guess,” said Getaway, leaning lazily back against the bar. “But from what I've heard, he was the same even before this place sank.”

“Yeah, I'd heard about that even on the surface,” Tailgate agreed. “I thought it might just be Cyclonus being nice, but Rewind wasn't so sure.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully. Today had yielded the surprise that _Swerve's_ was not exactly the only bar in Upper Tetrahex - though it was the only publicly accessible one. However, a mech who had enough social standing with Mirage, or one of his cohort, might be able to secure an invitation to a much more _exclusive_ establishment at the top of one of the Spires. The lack of a need to profit from his business meant Mirage could afford to be very picky.

Luckily, Getaway was one such fortunate mech.

“... You're meeting with Cyclonus, aren't you?” he said now, watching Tailgate shrewdly.

Tailgate hurriedly spat out his straw. “Only once!” he protested. “I… uh, I guess you did see me, that time I was looking out the window.”

“You're hard to miss, Scout!” Getaway laughed a little, waving Mirage over for a top-up. “So what, has he got you spying on us or something?”

“Primus, no! No, we just… we talk.”

“You just talk,” Getaway echoed disbelievingly.

“What's wrong with that?”

“I mean there's nothing wrong with talking, sure, in an abstract sense. The concept of talking is fine. But the concept of _Cyclonus_ ‘just talking’...” The other mech cast his optics upwards, humming contemplatively. “Nope, hate to break it to you Scout, but I think the world might be ending somewhere up there.”

“Are you saying you don't trust me?” asked Tailgate, only really half serious. It was hard to be completely serious around Getaway. Harder still since he'd struggled through those datapads about the Primal Vanguard, and was no longer having to make up tales completely on the spot when pressed - usually by the mech on the next-door barstool. The lies… _stories_ … came easier now.

No, _that_ was no longer hard at all; in fact, it was almost fun. Certainly, Tailgate felt more at home amongst nobles and award-winning scientific minds, now they believed that _he'd_ performed amazing feats too.

“I'm saying,” said Getaway, “that either you're being completely honest, and our exalted leader has had something knocked loose in his CPU - or that Cyclonus is hiding something from you.”

“You know, I think you all judge him kinda harshly. Sure, he's not the politest bot, but you claim to know exactly how horrible he is, then complain at the same time that he's really secretive and you never actually see him.”

Tailgate knew he was being a little hypocritical - his meeting with Cyclonus hadn't been the most cordial on either side - but the mini got the feeling that at least part of everyone's hatred towards the mech was simply needing someone _to_ hate; to have someone to direct all their day-to-day anger and frustration at, no matter its true source.

Even if Cyclonus really had dropped the city for no good reason (though after seeing his attitude towards Lower Tetrahex, Tailgate doubted it), Tailgate had too often been that mech that everyone decided to turn against. If a project went awry, you apportioned blame to someone working beneath you - and Tailgate was always on the lowest rung. Things seemed to work in the opposite direction here, but this sort of collective attitude still wasn't something the minibot liked seeing in action.

“Eh.” Oblivious to Tailgate’s stewing, Getaway stood and wandered over to the balcony at the edge of Mirage’s bar. (According to the curly-lettered neon sign hanging in front of Tailgate, it was called _“Visages”_. Personally, although it was less creative, he preferred _Swerve’s_ ).

“You'll understand once you’ve been here a while, Scout.” Getaway motioned Tailgate over, and with a parting wave to Mirage, the mini complied. “Maybe sooner than you'd think, if you have any more of these ‘talks’ with Cyclonus. I'm sure he'll show his true colours eventually.”

“I mean, he's not exactly been a dictionary-definition charming noblemech,” said Tailgate, hurrying to catch up as Getaway started walking along the balcony; round the outside of the tower to a more private seating area. “And I _know_ he's got energon on his servos.”

He thought again of Cyclonus describing his friend’s fate - the heaviness in the warrior’s voice had left no doubt that _he_ had been the one to carry out the sentence, but that wasn't as chilling as it might have been. For one thing, Swerve had hinted at something like this already; for another, Tailgate would've been far more concerned if Cyclonus had sounded proud about his actions, instead of impossibly weary.

And the friend had committed treason. Tailgate paused, momentarily, as a memory floated back to him from his brief stay in Lower Tetrahex.

_“One recording mentions a theft of some kind.”_

“You okay, Scout?” Getaway called - already waiting on the far end of the balcony.

“Yeah, fine,” said Tailgate, shaking himself. He jogged to his friend’s side, and mimicked his posture; leaning on the balcony rail and gazing out at the cavern.

It was easy to see why Mirage had moved into this spot. The pair currently stood at the very top of the tallest-but-one of the Spires, right below its crowning point of silvery glass - now jagged and broken - that caught the light from the lanterns and windows below, and bounced it back around Tailgate and Getaway in a web of crystalline shafts. It wasn't visible from the ground, but once you climbed up here the tower’s summit glimmered like a moon, among the longest stalactites.

Sleeping without a full roof overhead was a sacrifice Tailgate could well understand, to live like this. Especially once he'd learned that Mirage was an Iaconian noble.

The tallest of all the Spires had no such crowning glory. Even from here, Tailgate couldn't even see its point, though it loomed directly across from them; watchful and aloof at the very centre of the cave.

“So…” Getaway said - and as he did, Tailgate took a moment to admire how the silver-white light set his paintjob almost to glowing. “Was the talk with Cyclonus a one-off, or do you think you'll be called back again?”

“Oh, no, it's supposed to be a regular thing,” said Tailgate distractedly. He huffed, and turned his optics back out towards the central Spire - then jumped a little, as he felt Getaway’s arm and some of his weight come to rest on the hood behind his own helm.

“Sorry, Scout, didn't mean to startle you.”

Despite his apology, the other mech seemed disinclined to move; then again, Tailgate was disinclined to ask him to.

“You don't sound too thrilled about this whole setup.”

“I guess…” Tailgate said, dimming his visor contemplatively. “It's not much trouble, really. I'm mostly just worried about people thinking I'm spying for him or something - like you said.”

“Oh, hey, I didn't mean that.” Getaway’s servo had slid further down Tailgate’s hood now, and it tightened reassuringly right next to his audial. “I don't like seeing you worried, Scout. If anyone starts implying that kind of scrap, I'm happy to deal with ‘em.” He paused. “Not that I'm saying you couldn't, with the things you've done, but let someone else take the flack, yeah? Wouldn't want you to fall out of favour with Cyclonus.”

“Why not?”

“Common sense, really.” Getaway shrugged. “Best to avoid pissing off whoever calls the shots. That's what got us all trapped here, after all.”

They made their way out of _“Visages”_ not long after that - allowing a brief pause to chat to Windblade - but halfway down the tower’s spiral staircase, they were stopped, to Tailgate's surprise, by a passing minibot.

“Hi!” he greeted them, slightly breathlessly. His red visor was wide and overbright. “You're Tailgate, aren't you? I've seen you around - never had the courage to talk to you before now, but I've heard so much about you!”

“That's me,” Tailgate replied, rubbing the back of his neck a little self-consciously. “I haven't seen you before, though. I thought Anode, Lug and Swerve were the only minibots.”

“Oh no, there's a couple more of us about,” the new mech said. “But we are kind of easy to miss.”

Getaway snorted in apparent amused agreement.

“I'm Pipes. And, well, since you're here… I was wondering…”

Tailgate tilted his helm slightly, waiting for Pipes to gather the courage to continue - Primus knew he'd been in the other mech's position often enough. At his shoulder, however, Getaway had folded his arms, and adopted a less-than-friendly expression.

“... I was wondering if you'd like to go to Lord Cyclonus’ ball with me?”

Pipes finished his request all in a rush and Tailgate reset his visor, a little taken aback.

“Oh. Um. I'd love to, Pipes, but…”

Tailgate wasn't entirely sure how he'd planned to finish that sentence - still ever so slightly out of his depth. He knew, objectively, that Pipes must have been enamoured with the Tailgate in the stories that had spread through the city, like a case of Cosmic Rust; yet it was still hard to fathom someone asking something like this of a mech he'd never even spoken to, let alone gotten to know in any way.

Or at least, it was possible to fathom - just not when that mech was Tailgate.

In the event, he never even needed to formulate a reply. Getaway stepped forward smoothly and looked down at Pipes with a glint of what might have been scorn in his optic.

“Sorry, mate, he's already been asked by someone. Namely, me.”

Getaway’s words had a strangely hard edge, which Pipes evidently picked up on; he ducked his helm and hurried past them up the stairs, with a mumbled apology to Tailgate as he went.

Tailgate turned to stare at Pipes’ retreating back, a reassuring reply dying away in his vocaliser.

“That was a bit harsh, don't you think?”

Getaway suddenly looked rueful.

“Sorry, Scout, I didn't mean to overreact. Guess I got a bit jealous.”

The mini fixed Getaway with an appraising look. “I'll say. Since when did you even ask me to be your date?”

“I asked you for a dance?”

The question wasn't a correction - an uncertain sort of desire for confirmation was creeping through in Getaway’s voice. Hearing it, Tailgate immediately relented.

“Yeah, I guess that's true. Poor Pipes, though. I should probably try and find him at the ball and say sorry - you're not keeping me to yourself all evening.”

“Hey, as long as I get the first dance, I have no objection to that.”

“C’mon, then.” Feeling daring, Tailgate looped an arm through Getaway’s, and they started back down the stairs. “It's my turn to pick _your_ costume.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the ball, guys!!! I dunno if anyone else is excited, but I am having SO MUCH FUN writing it and I can't wait to show it to you! :D


	10. IX: Glamour, Music and Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND FINALLY, THE BALL! This got reeeaaaaaaally long, but hopefully that'll make up for it being a little while since I last updated. I had so much fun writing all this, so I hope you guys enjoy it too!
> 
> (Also, I almost feel like I should bump up the rating with this chapter, just for the sheer amount of accidental sexual metaphors that seem to have happened... :/)

_ More than once on this particular trip, Cyclonus had contemplated running away.  Perhaps with his companions in tow, perhaps not - perhaps not even bothering with the ship, and simply taking off into the open sky of this planet until he reached orbit, then drifting aimlessly away into space. That way, he would at least be impossible to pin down.  _

 

_ Yet as soon as these plans reared their heads, a wave of shame and revulsion was sure to submerge them again; because it was not Cyclonus’ place to flee. No matter that this would be the last alien world he ever set foot on, no matter that Tetrahex would soon be all he was permitted to know. These were selfish concerns, and his duty was to the Clavis Aurea. The thought of shirking the responsibility he had been born into was insupportable. He loved Tetrahex. That must surely be enough for him. _

 

_ Besides, he would still have his wings. A small sliver of the freedom he currently enjoyed, but still  _ something _ \- and to ask for more was, in any case, not becoming of a Keykeeper.  _

 

_ Above all, he could never have run without saying goodbye to Nightbird.  _

 

_ The thoughts still plagued him, however, no matter how he admonished them with this reasoning. So here he sat, on a grassy clifftop; the flat, silent night air offering no reprieve from the doubts sounding loud in his mind.  _

 

_ Below, the sheer face of rock he was perched on stretched out to each side, sheltering a city full of pulsing light at its base. The aliens they had encountered this time lived at the bottom of a vast crater - their last stronghold, having been pushed back across the planet by a rival race. Tomorrow, Cyclonus and his companions planned to step in and offer their aid.  _

 

_ His Amica had suggested this world; primarily because before the trio had actually landed upon its surface, they had known nothing about it whatsoever. In the normal course of things, ideas like this from his friend were the kind that Cyclonus tried to head off - but for once, he'd made the decision that they all ought to do something rash.  _

 

_ After all, Cyclonus had not yet worked up the courage to admit that once he returned home, he would never leave Tetrahex again. He owed his Amica this much, before confessing, for he knew his news would  _ not _ be well-received.  _

 

_ Scourge was already aware, of course, but for all that they trusted and liked each other, Scourge was not a friend Cyclonus had chosen. Scourge had likely made up his mind long ago, whether to remain behind in Tetrahex or not, and Cyclonus would readily accept either decision. He rather suspected that Scourge would stay - but rather hoped that he might leave, for the other mech’s own sake.  _

 

_ “Why are you moping around so late, then?”  _

 

_ Cyclonus’ engine gave a displeased growl as his Amica approached. “Why are  _ you _ not recharging?”  _

 

_ “Oi, don't give me that, we're not doing watches tonight. I can waste as much sleep as I damn well please.”  _

 

_ “It's a wonder you're hounding me for being awake, then.” Cyclonus leaned back onto his hands, craning his neck to glare up at his friend. “I expect this kind of behaviour from Scourge, but not you.”  _

 

_ “Disgraceful, aren't I?” His Amica flopped down onto the grass beside him, limbs sprawling haphazardly. “Although to be honest, I couldn't give a flying frag if you want to be walking down there tomorrow on an hour’s recharge, with your brain firing at two percent capacity. Two percent might be an improvement, come to think of it.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus turned to frown out over the crater. “Ha.”  _

 

_ “Oh, Primus’ sake, maybe you should get some sleep if you're gonna be like this in the morning. You'll put the locals right off.”  _

 

_ He didn't bother replying this time; knowing that his Amica was circling in, drawing closer and closer to coaxing the truth out of him. Such was their dance, neither being accustomed to as great a display of weakness as voicing their troubles aloud.  _

 

_ Still not willing to meet his friend’s optics, he glanced upwards - and was greeted by an unwelcome distraction.  _

 

_ “... How many different constellations do you think we’ve seen, altogether?”  _

 

_ “You what?”  _

 

_ “All the planets we’ve been to. How many ways have we seen the stars? I know I've lost count. I can't remember them all.”  _

 

_ “I mean, do you need to?” His Amica's mouth had pulled taut into a puzzled line. “You're not a walking encyclopaedia, Cyclonus, even with all that guardian of knowledge stuff. I know this is a bit of a foreign concept to you, but have you considered giving yourself a break?”  _

 

_ “What am I doing now, if not that?”  _

 

_ “Well, what you're doing  _ right now _ is sitting out here like a miserable edgelord because of some made-up way you've disappointed Nightbird.” An uncertain pause. “This  _ is _ about Nightbird, isn't it? That's your I'm-a-disgrace-to-my-mentor-and-my-destiny face. Or I think it is, you have a lot of faces like that one and they generally mean the same sort of thing.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus sighed. “It's not about Nightbird. It's about… a decision that will have to be made.”  _

 

_ “Oh, that's very helpful, that is. Go back to talking about the stars, you were making more sense.”  _

 

_ But Cyclonus couldn't well give voice to those thoughts, either. How could he explain that he was facing a lifetime of watching the same skies drift past time and again, knowing that they would never hold up to the endless, shining expanse of cosmos that the mech sitting at his side had shown him?  _

 

_ How could he explain that the loss of the stars would be nothing, were he also to lose his Amica? _

 

* * *

 

The night of the party, Windblade and Nautica showed up at Tailgate’s habsuite, bearing paint and smiles. Not long after they arrived came Swerve - independent of the other two, but apparently with the same goal in mind, of giving Tailgate some company while they all got themselves ready.

 

“It's a bit lonely up here, isn't it?” Windblade said by way of explanation. “I don't know why Lord Cyclonus stuck you in this place; there's still a couple of empty habsuites at the end of our hall.” 

 

“I s’pose he had his reasons,” Tailgate shrugged. Truth be told, he was often glad of the solitude that his little tower room afforded; it was the one space where people weren't likely to visit and bug him with more questions. 

 

“Anyway, Nautica - I'm guessing the library's all sorted now, if you're coming tonight?” 

 

“Yes, finally!” The femme shut off her optics, as she slumped back into a chair with a smile. She'd arrived already decked out - fitted jewellery clung to her shoulders, arms and shins, made from curious wrought fronds of a pale, pearlescent metal that Tailgate couldn't name. Her usual gold detailing was painted over to match, but the work was slightly patchy and rushed in places. 

 

“Did it… take you till today to clear it?” Tailgate tried for tact, not wanting to let on that he'd noticed. 

 

Nautica’s smile turned rueful. “Yeah. Somehow, whoever-it-was had time to mess with the geography section all the way up to the top shelves - but their evil deeds are now undone, and I can return to society! Minimus said he'd watch the place tonight, but I don't know if even Lug or Anode will be visiting.” 

 

“How's Minimus doing, anyway?” Swerve piped up. “I haven't seen him since that time I mixed up his order with Rodimus’ and he passed out. I was hoping even he'd have recovered by now, but maybe he's still mentally scarred if he's avoiding me.” 

 

Nautica gave Swerve a stern look. “Normally I'm all for a bit of biting humour, but please don't joke about Minimus and mental scarring. You know he's still hurting.” 

 

Swerve grimaced, and went back to daubing bronze paint on his arms, glossa poking out of the side of his mouth. Tailgate glanced between them awkwardly, unsure if he ought to say something, until Nautica spoke up again. 

 

“Oh, and Swerve - if it is you who's been messing around with the books, can you at least wait until tomorrow, when I'm back on duty and not him?” 

 

“Wait, what?!” The paintbrush slipped from Swerve's fingers, leaving a metallic smear in the intricate sunburst he'd been outlining. “Why would I mess with your library? Why would I even  _ go _ in your library? I have a chronic allergy to meaningful knowledge.” 

 

“I didn't say it was you, just that it might have been. But I'll knock you off the list of suspects.” Nautica sighed, digits plucking absently at the ornamentation around her neck. “Maybe I should talk to Nightbeat - it's not exactly the crime of the millennium, but he's probably desperate for anything to snoop around for at this point. Says he can't get a fix on any of the ‘interesting stuff’, whatever that means.” 

 

“Although to be fair, Swerve,” interjected Windblade. “If you're going to cultivate a reputation as a prankster, you have to expect that people will suspect you.” 

 

Swerve shot her a disgruntled look, but the femme herself was too busy applying paint around an optic, aided by a small mirror, to respond. Tailgate rather suspected that thanks to the mirror, she actually  _ had _ caught Swerve's reaction - her expression of indifference was a bit too studious. 

 

“My pranks are art, thank you very much!” the other mini protested. “You think I'd go in for something as unimaginative as throwing a few datapads around?” 

 

“Or deliberately swapping Minimus and Rodimus’ drinks?” 

 

Windblade moved on to her other optic. 

 

While Swerve stewed, Tailgate addressed the winged femme. “Hey, Windblade… Do you think you could paint my faceplate like that?” 

 

Windblade’s mouth twisted awkwardly as she lowered her mirror. “Ah… sorry, Tailgate, but this design’s kind of a cultural thing. I can give you something a bit like it, though!” 

 

“Oh, sure!” Tailgate seated himself on the floor as Windblade hurried over to kneel beside him. “Which city are you from, then?” 

 

“Not a city.” Her expression softened into something fond. “A colony. Caminus. I hadn't been back in ages before we sank, but this” - she lifted small, slender digits to hover at her cheek - “was a mark of my status. Now, it's just a nice reminder of home.”

 

Eyeing up the gold holofabric that Tailgate had draped over a nearby chair, Windblade extracted a similar colour of paint from her subspace and set to work. 

 

Despite Swerve's mishap with the paintbrush, and Nautica falling asleep where she sat for a while, they all found themselves polished and presentable with time to spare before the ball would start in earnest. Even so, Windblade insisted on leaving early. 

 

“It's only just down the hall, though!” Nautica protested as she was chivvied out the door. Tailgate wondered if she'd been hoping to sneak in another nap. 

 

While Swerve followed the femmes downstairs, Tailgate paused and headed back into the habsuite. In his berthroom had been a much larger mirror than Windblade’s - they'd co-opted this and dragged it through to the sitting room, once it was time to put on costumes. 

 

Tailgate approached it now, hesitant; still not quite believing that what he would see there could possibly be  _ him _ . 

 

Yet there he stood: Getaway’s gift draped about him in soft waves of pale gold, secured in place by a handful of tiny, twinkling magnets that Tailgate had discovered on one of the market stalls. His faceplate, arms, and chest were covered in spiky little sweeps of paint, scrawled over him like one of the strange organic languages from Cyclonus’ collection. 

 

The remnants of his  _ WASTE DISPOSAL _ label had vanished - in the end, Tailgate had realised he didn't want Velocity to change it to match his story, but now it was concealed beneath a temporary layer of white. All the scuffs on his plating that had never quite seemed to fade were polished away; even the one or two shoddy weld patches he still sported could no longer be seen through the holofabric. 

 

He looked like a painting, or a statue - an idol, even - something not quite real, and exaggerated in its perfection. 

 

_ Is this how the others see themselves all the time?  _

 

Or did they even notice? Could this ever become such second nature to him? Perhaps one day, the grubby, uneducated little maintenance drone might disappear forever under layers of polish and glitter and paint. 

 

_ And perhaps I wouldn't mind that so much.  _

 

“Tailgate! What on Cybertron are you doing up there?” 

 

The mini startled at Nautica's voice, almost knocking the mirror over as he hurried to join her. 

 

“Doesn't matter! Coming!” 

 

Down the spindly stairs they went - this time turning not for the entrance again, but off to the left, where the cavernous stretch of hallway was almost as dimly lit as Cyclonus’ chambers. Their steps echoed off the grown-stone walls as they walked, and Tailgate shivered slightly in the still, disused air. 

 

“You sure we're going the right way?” he asked Windblade, trying not to sound too timid. 

 

“Trust me.” The femme’s grin was only somewhat reassuring. “This is the  _ only _ way to make an entrance.” 

 

They rounded a corner as she spoke, and Tailgate immediately began to make sense of her meaning. Up ahead, the quiet grey gloom gave way to faint strains of music and chatter, and pale yellow light spilling up the passage. The mini was reminded forcibly of his first night in the city; it was strange to think that he'd gone from scarcely daring to peek at Cyclonus’ glittering guests, to being the star of their show. 

 

It absolutely was a  _ show _ , too - the four mecha eventually drew close enough that Tailgate could see railings cutting off the hallway at the end. Hurrying up to them, with not half a thought for the others, he discovered twin staircases that swept down into the ballroom, like waterfalls of thinly hammered silver - and was greeted by a spectacle unrivalled by any he'd yet seen in Upper Tetrahex. 

 

The ballroom itself might have been roughly carved and lopsided, like everywhere else in the palace; but it was so lavishly decorated as to complement the unrefined, hewn rock, rather than show it up. Cool stone encased a treasure box of trinkets: the highly polished, silver-white floor, inlaid with patterns of what Tailgate strongly suspected might be diamonds, and shot through with iridescent, rainbow-bright swirls of colour, like ripples under oil; the slender, free-standing pillars, some warped or severed, that rose seamlessly from the matching metal of the floor, reaching for the great yawn of the ceiling high above and wound round with carvings of impossible beasts, from Cybertron’s first ages; the lethal- yet fragile-looking sculptures of pristinely clear, jagged glass, that lined the stairs and ringed the room, throwing out miniature constellations of reflected light; the low trays of choice crystal cultures that stretched between the pillars on the edges of the dance floor and twinkled merrily, as if they were able to see the festivities and delight in them. All this, and more - more colour, more shine, more opulence - until Tailgate could hardly decide where to look. 

 

And everywhere, there was light. It blazed from the chandeliers that hung, regimented and heavy with strings of precious gems, from the roof; some of the glittering ropes dangling almost to head-height above the floor. It was held in the throats of the carved creatures on the pillars, who served as concealed sconces, and was even worn by some of the party guests. Rodimus hurried past just below Tailgate, his helm, chest, and upper arms wreathed in miniscule glowing bulbs. Behind him trailed a swarm of the same tiny lights, tethered to his frame by filaments so fine that they seemed to dance through the air as the speedster moved. 

 

Despite his finery, Tailgate suddenly felt rather dull in comparison. The others clearly had a massive head start on him when it came to picking stunning evening wear.

 

Still, Getaway had given him this holofabric. Bland or not, he would wear it proudly. 

 

He’d just… stay up here and admire the ballroom for a while, first.

 

As Tailgate continued to stare, Nautica, Swerve, and Windblade drifted up behind him. Windblade, upon spotting Chromia skulking in a corner of the ballroom, hurried down the stairs to greet her; Swerve followed soon after, when one of his bar staff appeared through the garden entrance at the opposite end of the hall. Nautica lingered. 

 

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” she said with a smile, leaning her elbows on the balcony. “I’ll never forget my first ball - I mean, I’d never have forgotten it anyway, because I bumped into Perceptor, realised who he was, panicked, and completely trampled a crystal arrangement trying to get away.”

 

“I might just beat you in the embarrassing spectacle stakes,” muttered Tailgate. “The ball’s not even started yet - bet you I’ll trip down the stairs, or get snagged on one of those sculptures.” 

 

“Oh, is that a  _ challenge _ ?” Nautica turned towards him, optics dancing. A moment later, they softened, something knowing settling behind them. 

 

“I know it’s daunting. First time  _ I _ went out there, I was just some nobody Ibex Academy graduate, who hadn’t had time to make a name for herself. But look at you! You're already the talk of the town; once you get onto the dance floor you'll be the guest of honour, too.” 

 

She gave Tailgate a nudge as she spoke, shunting him minutely towards the stairs on his left. He went reluctantly, seized in the grip of panic at her words. 

 

_ Telling stories is one thing… but I don't know how to  _ behave _ at fancy parties. If everyone’s watching me, surely they'll notice? _

 

But abstaining entirely would cause problems of its own - and Getaway was waiting somewhere down there, hoping for a dance. 

 

The mini heaved in a deep breath, needlessly adjusting his garment. 

 

“Alright. Do you think you could run Brainstorm interference for me, though? My idea of a fun night isn't giving a lecture on recent history of explosives.” 

 

“Consider it done. Now stop stalling, and get out there.” 

 

And so Tailgate stepped onto the stairs. 

 

* * *

 

They said that he never showed up to these spectacles he hosted; what they meant, of course, was that nobody had ever seen him at one.

 

Even now - when only dregs of petty gossip, rehashed ten times over, were all that remained of a former wealth of information - even now, Cyclonus would linger in the shadowed corners of the ballroom, and watch, and listen. 

 

Sometimes, he favoured observing from the entrance hall; but this time, he'd concealed himself behind a rocky outcrop, near the veranda, so as not to be seen by the arriving guests - tonight, he was early. For tonight, for the first time in longer than his guests knew, there was new talk on their lips. Talk of a minibot, who had travelled to amazing places and performed amazing deeds - but who, more importantly, had fallen down a hole in the ground and become a symbol of hope. 

 

It almost made Cyclonus laugh, to hear Tailgate spoken of so. Every last one of those stories was a falsehood, and the hope he had unwittingly brought to the citizens of Upper Tetrahex was equally misguided and hollow. Not to mention that the gossips’ newfound hero, and the diminutive, anxious mech who had sat in Cyclonus’ sitting room and pestered him, were so horribly dissonant as to provoke a grain of worry in the back of Cyclonus’ CPU. He had no qualms admitting his lack of faith that Tailgate could maintain such a precarious cover story. 

 

And yet, everything depended upon him succeeding. 

 

He had held up so far, though, which Cyclonus would have given credit for - were he the sort of mech to think that convincingly lying for a week deserved any form of merit. 

 

Tailgate did have Cyclonus’ grudging admiration in one respect, though: somehow, during their last conversation, he'd accidentally found the sole thing to say that'd put Cyclonus on the defensive, and provoked him into telling more, looking back, than he was entirely comfortable with. Even if none of the information was of particular value, it had almost been enough to convince him that Tailgate really  _ was _ down here deliberately, with an ulterior motive. Having encountered the minibot's general air of uncertainty and cluelessness multiple times now, however, he'd instead become convinced that nobody was  _ that  _ good of an actor. 

 

Besides, a mech with anything to hide would never display such a lack of control over his EM field. Tailgate was no spy - just a liar, and a bad one at that. 

 

His story about the Primal Vanguard proved as much. Cyclonus refused to believe the mini’s motivations for it were as virtuous as he claimed; he'd been trying to show off, and it had almost resulted in catastrophic failure. These were merely the actions of someone blinded by wealth and elegance, trying too hard to carve his way into a role and a life where he patently didn't belong. 

 

All of which did not mean Cyclonus would stop having Drift watch Tailgate, whenever possible. 

 

At present, however, Drift was otherwise occupied: Cyclonus trained his gaze on the white mech where he stood across the room, hovering slightly awkwardly near a pillar. He hadn't dressed for the occasion, probably in an attempt to avoid standing out - unfortunately, amid everyone else’s drapery and jewels, it had the opposite effect. 

 

Cyclonus could almost sympathise. He'd encountered the same problem often enough, at balls before the city sank. Back then, he'd been required to at least show his face sometimes. That was perhaps one of the few blessings that their current situation had bestowed - having condemned everyone, he was no longer welcome among them, and no longer had to play the part of the elegant, distinguished noble. 

 

He was sure he'd done as poor a job as Tailgate was in his current role. 

 

Perhaps Nightbird, too, had been oddly fortunate in her punishment - since few bothered to learn any form of hand, small talk had been out of the question for her. Personally, Cyclonus had thought it rather unfair that she'd waited until the day he left for the Flight Academy to cease hosting her parties altogether. She might have made that decision at least few millennia earlier, to save  _ him _ a few millennia of discomfort. 

 

Drift, in his little corner, was starting to look more and more like Cyclonus had so often felt at these gatherings. There was no need to wonder who had put him in such a situation - and sure enough, Rodimus bounced over a moment later, all gleaming, fiery paint and dancing light, and began chatting animatedly at Cyclonus’ guard. 

 

Unsurprisingly, this was not taken to kindly by the rest of the guests. Rodimus quickly began to attract disapproving glares, for showing one of Cyclonus’ favourites such favouritism. Cyclonus himself was left wondering what had possessed Drift to accept Rodimus’ invitation - even Scourge, who missed attending the parties more than Drift ever had, would have surely declined, knowing the reception that would await him. To keep Upper Tetrahex's residents happy, it was necessary that these nights of distraction contained as few reminders as possible of the mech who was actually hosting them; Cyclonus was happy to oblige, and he imagined Drift might be happier to do so too, after tonight. 

 

If not, he would simply have to be forbidden from attending. 

 

A stream of newcomers from the gardens drifted across Cyclonus’ vision, obscuring his erstwhile subordinate from view. Mirage, who had fine copper wire creeping over his frame like organic vines, studded with minute gems; as understated as ever, yet still noticeably drawing the optics of several other mecha the moment he entered the room... that trio of mechs who'd worked in the old judicial district, who always wore matching decorations… tonight, it was long trains of gauzy holofabric - purple for Borer, orange for Skater, and green for Flex… Getaway; another long-term guest, though of much lower status than Mirage, with a slash of thicker red cloth draped about his shoulders… Powerglide… Riptide… First Aid… 

 

At some point in the past - before the reality of this situation had settled quite so thickly - Cyclonus had taken pride in the level of knowledge he possessed, about the mecha he had inadvertently trapped. He already knew his own citizens, but to have learned the newcomers too felt like a link to Nightbird, in a way. 

 

For she had been the one to teach him to read - not just glyphs, but the deeper meaning of words; the subtle tells of a sparring opponent; the true intent behind a visiting emissary’s empty flattery.  _ People _ as well as words, and the souls and secrets behind words themselves, though truth be told, Cyclonus had always felt far more comfortable dealing with the latter. 

 

Of course, he had never been taught to  _ do _ anything with the gathered information save squirrel it away, and quietly call upon it in times of utmost need - be that in the next microsecond, as a sword swung, or the next century, when the same emissary returned, parroting the same compliments. Nor had he any inclination to find further use for it. To be Keykeeper was to carry a unique and weighty responsibility; not to conspire and make small talk with politicians and scheming aristocrats. To be Keykeeper was to  _ guard _ knowledge; not to harness and twist it for selfish, personal gains. 

 

Yet now, in the stagnant cycle of days that they all shuffled through time and again, this knowledge he had gleaned held no use - rarely were there incidents that posed enough threat to require diffusing, and never did the mecha he had observed for so long approach him, with concerns of the kind that a leader might be required to resolve. And so it simply sat in his mind; a catalogue of all the lives he had dragged down with him, festering like a cancerous lump of rust. 

 

Cyclonus could feel a headache beginning to build in his processor - adding to the by-now ever present throb, of the new crystal pushing its way into existence beneath his helm. Seeking a reprieve, he scanned the room for Drift again, in half a mind to send him upstairs via comm. on a pretext. 

 

After several seconds Cyclonus located the white mech, halfway across the room from where he'd last stood, being tugged along by a resolutely cheerful Rodimus. Drift looked like he'd been on the verge of protesting this development for a while -  but even as Cyclonus continued to watch, he still didn't open his mouth. 

 

_ Foolish of him. He's only making things harder for himself later.  _

 

For the moment, however, Drift’s problem appeared to be resolving itself: Rodimus had come to a screeching halt in the middle of the dance floor, still clinging to Drift’s arm, but now gazing at something up on the grand staircase. 

 

Curiosity reluctantly piqued, Cyclonus peered as far beyond his hiding-place as he dared (which, really, was hardly anything, given that his horn preceded all else and made him much too noticeable). This wasn't the normal way of things. Around the room, mecha were pausing in their conversations and as one turning in the same direction, apparently fascinated by something that Cyclonus still couldn't see. 

 

He frowned - doing nothing to ease his headache - and quietly stepped out from behind the jut of rock. Nobody was expecting him to be there, so nobody in their right mind would be looking for him; even if they weren't all so thoroughly distracted. He was safe for a moment. 

 

Cyclonus followed the other guests’ line of sight, fully prepared to berate himself in a moment for getting swept up into their ridiculous, gossipy sensationalism. As his optics found what they were all staring at, however, that little mental note cheerfully made its farewells, and wandered away for the present. 

 

Tailgate, descending the staircase, was the spectacle, and for each step he took an odd, captivating change seemed to steal over him. 

 

Cyclonus’ very first thought was concern, with all this attention - that it might fluster the minibot, make him do something stupid - but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. Draped about in shimmering gold, visor bright and helm high, Tailgate visibly drank in all the optics upon him - and was, apparently, not weighed down in the slightest. 

 

Why should he be? Nobody who watched frowned upon him, or whispered scathing remarks, or hurled an occasional insult; no doubt he would have been used to such things in his old life, but here, that was the lot of Cyclonus and his own ilk. People waved as Tailgate descended, and smiled. Rodimus called a greeting, Mirage gracefully inclined his helm, and Brainstorm seemed to be barely holding himself back from rushing the minibot, surely possessed of some burning, highly technical query. 

 

And… no matter that he surely knew it was all a sham, that these mecha were fawning over an illusion - as Tailgate drew closer to the ground, he seemed to grow brighter. His visor curved into an approximation of a smile, and he laughed and returned the waves sent his way; the panicky disposal mech Cyclonus had found in his chapel all but effaced. 

 

Yet it wasn't conceit, or self importance. Cyclonus could tell as much from the opposite end of the room, that Tailgate wasn't scheming, and he wasn't lying for prestige, or the sake of his ego. He was simply  _ lonely _ . And perhaps just a little desperate. 

 

Even witnessing Tailgate’s current happiness, though, Cyclonus couldn't convince himself that keeping the mini here was the moral choice, as well as the necessary one. 

 

One last name, then, to add to the list of his trespasses… but at what point had an act committed in the name of preserving a religion, and more besides, become a transgression in its own right?

 

* * *

 

Nautica was soon proved correct, in that Tailgate needn't have worried at all. The moment his pedes touched the ballroom floor he was practically mobbed - something he was growing ever more used to, but not quite enough yet to be entirely at home with it.

 

Still, it was no great hardship to smile and laugh and carefully deflect the odd unanswerable question, when he already felt like smiling and laughing from sheer relief, if nothing else. Everyone had stared, certainly, and Tailgate had seen occasional whispers behind servos, and he might well have panicked, save for the fact that he could see Swerve in the crowd, and Windblade and Lotty and Riptide and Drift and -

 

Getaway. Arms folded and optics twinkling, he had watched Tailgate proudly wearing the holofabric he'd picked out. Tailgate had had to resist the urge to give a small twirl on the spot, just to show off; he'd look ridiculous, if nobody else knew what it meant. 

 

Now, though, Rodimus was  _ asking _ him to show off his outfit. Mainframe was admiring Windblade's paint work; Swerve was cracking jokes about his own mishap in that department. Nautica finally alighted at ground level, adding her own quip to the end of Swerve's, and First Aid came hurrying over to give Tailgate an enthusiastic, unexpected - but not unwelcome - hug in greeting, having dragged a grumbling Ratchet along to say hello. 

 

Tailgate was left with the overall impression of a flock of glittering, twittering lilleths - and left marvelling that he'd been welcomed into their flock. 

 

As he beamed around at everyone, his worries from before slinking into the far corners of his mind, the gathering crowd gave a rustle all as one, and suddenly parted. Getaway was approaching, looking like a sunrise, in his red and gold and blue; his dancing eyes, and his aura of slight, nervous joy, that mirrored what Tailgate felt in his own spark at this moment all too perfectly. 

 

He wore the garment Tailgate had chosen for him: another swath of holofabric, but one that could almost have passed for solid, organic cloth; heavily textured, arrestingly scarlet, and woven through with a mesh of bright, brassy wire, fine enough to be embroidered into a pattern of flourishes and tightly-furled loops. He'd copied the same design onto himself, from his elbows down to his fingertips, and all round his helm, and small clasps like little golden claws, near his neck and just below his shoulders, held the cloak in place. 

 

When he reached Tailgate, Getaway bowed - actually  _ bowed _ , acting as well as looking like something out of the most fantastical Golden Age legends. Tailgate, rather flustered, returned the gesture a fraction too late, but nobody seemed to mind, or even to notice. Getaway least of all; he immediately stepped closer and took both of Tailgate's servos in his own. 

 

“Knew you'd look amazing in gold,” he said quietly, apparently not caring one jot that they were surrounded by a knot of other party guests. It might have been embarrassing, save that it was  _ Getaway _ , and Tailgate was still a little disbelieving that someone like this would acknowledge - even relish - whatever they had between them, so publicly. 

 

_ Well, why wouldn't he? He thinks you're a war hero.  _

 

Bizarrely, that thought was what gave Tailgate the push to reply, teasingly: “Well, I'm glad one of us had confidence, ‘cause I wasn't nearly so sure  _ you _ were gonna scrub up.” 

 

Getaway dipped his helm with a huff of laughter, then pulled Tailgate in closer, tucking one of the minibot's servos over his elbow. “I'm not sure that I do, next to you.” 

 

And just like that, Tailgate was speechless again. 

 

The other mech led him away from the small throng at the foot of the stairs, further out towards the ballroom's centre. From ground level, Tailgate could see long tables laid out either side of the staircase - heavy with glasses and tureens and platters and cubes, all the better to show off a veritable rainbow of different fuels. A pyramid of little lavender-coloured energon treats got a longing glance; but nobody else seemed to be eating yet, and Tailgate the bomb disposal expert would have surely been able to afford all the fancy sweets he wanted. Tailgate the Primal Vanguard veteran would see nothing particularly extraordinary in this feast. 

 

Knowing this, he allowed himself to be drawn into the middle of the room, realising as he went that this was also the middle of the  _ dance floor _ \- and suddenly, a great many eyes were once more upon him. 

 

“So, Scout!” said Getaway, turning to face the mini. “Can I collect on that first dance?” 

 

Tailgate didn't really see how he could say  _ no _ , not with practically everyone watching, and especially not considering that he had, in fact, promised the first dance to Getaway. There was just the one small problem that - 

 

“I can't” - Tailgate blurted, before catching himself, and lowering his voice. “I mean, I  _ don't _ know how you guys dance. It's probably not what I'm used to.” 

 

_ It's  _ definitely _ not what I'm used to. _

 

Getaway didn't acknowledge his slip in the slightest, which was a relief. His optics simply crinkled into a smile. “You're a fast learner though, right? I can show you the ropes, and as long you've got a decent sense of rhythm it doesn't really matter what you do anyway.” His voice, already quiet to match Tailgate’s, dipped further. “We're not all quite as…  _ proper _ as you make us sound.” 

 

Well. Tailgate supposed that it wouldn't be so bad, once other people started to join in. More dancers meant more chance that his two left feet would go unnoticed. 

 

He nodded, and Getaway’s smile grew brighter. The other mech raised a servo - all of a sudden, there was music, flowing in from an unseen source. Tailgate felt like it reminded him of something that he couldn't quite place. 

 

No time to dwell on that, however: the first few chords struck up, a series of drawn-out notes like the nervous clearing of a throat, and Getaway was pulling Tailgate in closer again; arranging their arms in a strange, stiff, angular stance. 

 

“Easier for me to lead like this,” he said, almost apologetically - and Tailgate could see why, as he himself was forced to hold his arms almost above his head in order to reach Getaway’s. 

 

But then the first notes of the melody struck, and Getaway whisked him off across the floor, and his aching arms and clumsy feet ceased to matter at all. 

 

He did stumble at first; before panic could set in, he felt his arms tugged a fraction higher. One was draped over Getaway’s, the other extended to clasp his partner’s servo, and Tailgate's stature and slight build meant that he was suddenly lifted onto the tips of his pedes, footsteps barely skimming the ground. 

 

“Timing,” Getaway murmured. 

 

“Sorry?” 

 

“Listen for the pattern in the music. Then it's just a matter of making your steps fit to it.” He turned them sharply, and his optics brightened, as Tailgate resolutely refused to trip again. “Soon, you won't even notice that you're following.” 

 

They were tracing a lazy, looping path around the edge of the dance floor - Tailgate, lost in the sensation of practically floating to the music (and Getaway’s eyes), began to forget his worries, and instead, sure enough, found a slow count running through the tune. 

 

Lowering himself back onto the flats of his feet, he was immediately swung out to the side; Getaway brought their clasped servos inwards and looped an arm around the mini’s waist. From there, Tailgate only had to match the rhythm of the other mech's steps, keeping time as he was pulled and spun and swept away, until even the rainbows trapped in the floor were reduced to a shifting kaleidoscope; a live-wire display that chased every movement he made.

 

The gathered guests whipped past his optics in a similar blur, their shining paint and finery a reflection of the patterns beneath Tailgate's feet. Nobody seemed to be joining in the dance - but before Tailgate could dwell on that, Getaway abruptly released his hold. 

 

There was a fraction of a breath where Tailgate feared he would fall flat on his back, helpless to his own gathered momentum. 

 

Just as his spark began a fearful skip, a servo grasped his own, lifting it above his helm and twirling him round; so fast that he could see nothing but vague streaks of light before him, and so carefully that he knew he didn't  _ need _ to see anything else. In this moment, Getaway served as his own eyes. 

 

The world slammed back into focus as an arm connected with his back. Getaway, still clasping the minibot's other hand, had Tailgate hanging suspended - but supported - out at an angle, body arcing from the point where a bright blue servo splayed against his plating. 

 

Tailgate blinked, trying all at once to shakily draw air into his vents; to drink in the sight of Getaway, and the blaze of his optics; to hold this pose for as long as he possibly could, each point of contact of their plating and the faint brush of their EM fields like hooks in his very protoform, keeping him rooted to the mech above him. 

 

He could only try for the barest moment - Getaway had them both upright and off across the floor again before any of those thoughts could settle themselves in his CPU. They scattered instead, drifting through his mind in time with the music, in time with his own feet; which he had, indeed, ceased to notice, without it making him stumble. On each rise and fall of the melody, a new, fleeting impression passed across his processor, of Getaway or of their liquid silver surroundings. Tailgate began to wonder if he'd even need to partake of the banquet table at all, feeling drunk on the speed of the dance alone… dizzied by the rush of ever-shifting colour and light as Getaway spun him… somehow exalted, not subdued, in the knowledge that all eyes were upon he and his partner, for nobody else dared take to the floor…

 

Getaway had perhaps been prophetic in choosing Tailgate’s attire. Their path might have wound between silver pillars, but they themselves glowed brighter. 

 

They were golden. 

 

The music from nowhere swelled to its peak, crashing over them like a wave and carrying Tailgate gently down from the glittering heights he'd danced to. He and Getaway were left holding each other at the epicentre of the floor - a pair of shining icons, untouchable, in this one last moment that stretched like a bubble, distorting Tailgate’ awareness of anything but his partner. 

 

A strange sound broke the spell between them. Tailgate’s first thought was the patter of acid rain against the thin shell of a workers’ dormitory, but nothing so ugly belonged down in this pristine world. Only by wrenching his gaze away from Getaway, to scan the room, did he discover its source. 

 

Applause. The other guests were clapping. Because of Getaway - and because of  _ Tailgate _ . 

 

He ought to have been further elated by their appreciation… but that enchanted, higher realm he had reached in Getaway’s arms, where nobody else's eyes mattered, was fading. Not least because Getaway was now physically stepping back; bowing over Tailgate’s hand again and looking as though he was about to walk away; to leave the minibot stranded and at the mercy of several dozen determined gazes, like pins in his plating.

 

Nobody had joined in for that first dance, as Tailgate had been expecting. Realisation slammed into him, like the landslide all over again: everyone had seen everything, from his initial stumbling gait, to being awkwardly half-carried, to acting like a complete lovesick fool over Getaway…

 

_ I can't  _ do _ this. My act won't work, now they've seen me like  _ that _. _

 

Some of the guests were beginning to take to the floor now, waiting for the next dance. Nautica appeared to be all but hauling Brainstorm out there, and for that Tailgate was fleetingly grateful, but others still hung back - and more than a few of those were beginning to edge in Tailgate's direction. Rodimus had left Drift on the sidelines; the thought of being trapped toe to toe with him and his pleading questions was enough to stoke the flickers of panic beginning to kindle in the minibot's CPU. 

 

While that worry had been brewing, Getaway had turned to leave the dance floor, and the idea that he might walk off was more frightening than anything else. Tailgate called his name, but he appeared not to notice - waving as he spotted someone in the crowd, instead. The mini tried again, louder, only for Getaway to slip between Bluestreak and Chromia, and vanish. 

 

At least that gave Tailgate an excuse to disappear, too. 

 

Surprisingly, by the time the minibot wended his way between all the tightly-clustered, highly-decorated, chattering mecha (and very nearly trampled on poor Mirage’s feet),  Getaway was standing alone, by the left-hand stairs, talking on his comm. Perhaps the person he'd caught sight of had wandered off. 

 

Tailgate hung back for politeness’ sake, waiting for Getaway to finish his call - and as he cast his gaze around for something to occupy his interest, it alighted on a small, round dais nestled between the feet of the twin staircases. 

 

He hadn't been able to see that before, for all the party guests eager to get his attention. Now, however, he could look his fill of the instruments scattered across the platform: sinuous shapes of polished nickel, some with wafer-thin keys, or holographic screens, or strings of glowing, gossamer wire attached. Were it not for their unnaturally new-minted gleam, they might have been exhibits in a museum, so clearly hand-crafted and almost  _ analogue _ were they. Tailgate couldn't have named a single one if he sat and listened to them play all night. 

 

Music from  _ somewhere _ , after all, then. 

 

“They play themselves, y’know.” 

 

“They what?” 

 

Getaway had hung up while Tailgate investigated this new discovery - he ambled over, the patterns on his plating blending almost seamlessly into the wire in his cloak, so that living, golden lines seemed to shift over his frame. Frustratingly, he didn't come to stand beside Tailgate, but rather behind him; as though trying to get a better view of the dais. 

 

“They just sort of… float up,” Getaway said, as Tailgate twisted to look over his shoulder. “When we want them. And then they make music all of their own accord. And we dance to it. Watch - there they go now.” 

 

He pointed, and Tailgate followed the line of the gesture - and sure enough, each instrument was rising from the floor to hover in formation. A couple of the stringed contraptions gave experimental trills, but that was the only warning before the air filled with more delicately-aged music. 

 

Tailgate knew, now, why it had sounded so foreign on his first night down here, and that knowledge was satisfying, but - 

 

“They don't…  _ transform _ , do they?” he whispered to Getaway. “Or something? Because I've known mecha who float, but that's not normal for anything without antigravs.” 

 

Getaway shook his head, taking a step closer to Tailgate. 

 

“As far as I know, they're inanimate,” he said. “And I've never come across anyone whose alt was a musical instrument.  _ Creepy _ , isn't it?” 

 

It was, Tailgate had to admit - though nowhere near on the level of strange, growing rock, or collective short-term memory loss. 

 

“But nobody finds anything wrong with this.  _ I'm _ not sure why it feels wrong, or why I even notice.” 

 

Getaway’s optics were screwed up, now, in a pained sort of contemplation - and more than anything, Tailgate wanted to pull him out of it and restore him to the lightness and laughter and wit he'd exuded back out on the dance floor. 

 

“I do know it's all to do with Cyclonus, though. It's got to be. He's done  _ something _ beyond dropping us down here, and I don't care if nobody else's noticed - I'm going to find out what.” 

 

“You could talk to that mech who lives in the Spires,” Tailgate offered hesitantly. “Nightbeat? He likes investigating things, right?” 

 

Getaway snorted. “Nightbeat doesn't know what the hell he's looking at. He likes to think he's chasing mysteries, but he hasn't got a clue.” 

 

The other mech spun, suddenly, and all traces of tortured thought were gone - Tailgate was left fixed in the beam of a ferocious, singularly determined gaze. 

 

“You do, though, Scout. You've got an in with Cyclonus - and like I said before, you'll understand our view of him soon enough. Just be careful, yeah?” Getaway stepped closer, bringing a servo up to brush his digits against the side of Tailgate's mask. “Getting too close to this kind of slag can be dangerous - and I don't mean ‘disarming a Zeotopian warhead’ dangerous.” 

 

This wasn't at all what Tailgate had bargained for when he'd followed Getaway through the crowd. Floundering more than a little, he squashed a half-formed critique of this fresh, harsh assessment of Cyclonus; and beyond that, a complaint that he didn't  _ want _ to be discussing the Keykeeper’s possible crimes in a place so full of music and merriment and light. Someone like him couldn't afford to complain to someone like Getaway, false persona or no - too much negativity, and Tailgate knew he stood to lose the mech before him. 

 

“Did… I was going to… d’you want to go and dance, again?” he managed, rather lamely. 

 

“Hm? Oh, no - you don't want me hanging off your arm all evening, do you? I'd look pathetic; you wouldn't want to be seen with me.” 

 

“That's not true!” Tailgate protested - but on the tail end of his words crept a sudden doubt, that if he pushed any further then that would be how  _ Getaway _ saw  _ him _ … 

 

“But… well, if you're sure you don't want to, I'll go find Pipes. Let me know if you change your mind, though, yeah?” 

 

Getaway nodded vaguely, his optics now locked on the hovering, musician-less orchestra. Digits flexed in a feverish pattern down by his side: he seemed to be counting the rhythm. 

 

* * *

 

Tailgate did fully intend to seek out Pipes - but one look at the fast paced, whirling dervish of a dance that everyone was currently racing their way through, and he instead decided to seek refuge at the banquet table for the time being.

 

(He was aware that someone like Mirage probably would've called it a  _ buffet _ at best. He didn't care; until Upper Tetrahex, ‘banquet’ had meant a box of energon goodies wherever a job gave him a bonus). 

 

It was hard to exercise restraint in the circumstances, and Tailgate considered his effort admirable: he managed not to stuff his face; instead sedately sampling almost all the solid fuel treats, and retreating to the side of the room to avoid being further tempted by those little lavender morsels. They were every bit as heavenly as he'd expected, like candied clouds. 

 

Sturdy silver benches had been laid out parallel to the rows of pillars and crystal cuttings, up against the walls of the cave. Tailgate perched on the end of the one nearest the veranda, still holding a small plate of treats, and watched First Aid whisk past, accompanied by an equally exuberant Velocity; Windblade, gracefully steering a much less enthusiastic Chromia; Rodimus, in the arms of a femme with  _ actual flames _ crackling on the top of her helm. 

 

He noted, too, those who were conspicuous in their absence from the dance floor, if not the room entirely: Anode, Lug, Drift, Pipes, Swerve… and of course, the Keykeeper himself. 

 

Tailgate still wasn't quite sure what to make of Getaway’s claims about Cyclonus. There was, undeniably, something not quite right even here, amidst all this splendour - but why would someone  _ provide _ so much splendour, if they only sought to harm, or entrap, or do whatever it was that Getaway suspected, to their guests? 

 

At the very least, if Cyclonus was up to no good, Tailgate could imagine him going about it because he had to, more easily than he could conceive of the other mech acting out of malice. Nobody so reclusive, so standoffish and so weary, could take pleasure in  _ anything _ that others felt, good or bad. The minibot was sure of that. 

 

The music died away again while Tailgate chewed this over (along with his remaining energon treats), and his ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Nautica. She flopped onto the other end of the bench, leaned her helm against the coarse cave wall, and stretched her legs out with a great heave of a sigh. 

 

“I picked the  _ wrong _ dance to ask Brainstorm for,” she announced. “Still, looks like it helped you escape him. Where's Getaway?” 

 

“Oh, he… he got a comm. from someone,” said Tailgate hastily. “And I was hungry, so…” 

 

“Really?” Nautica's frown was inquisitive, rather than judgemental, but it still made him want to squirm with nerves. If she didn't buy that, he really  _ would _ look pathetic, just like Getaway had said. 

 

“Huh. Can't think who’d be calling him, when practically everyone's already here. Maybe Ambulon.” 

 

Tailgate dared to slump a little in his seat, hopeful that her reply meant she believed him. 

 

“That's the other medic, right? How come he's not here?” 

 

“Well, someone's got to staff the clinic, and Lotty says he usually volunteers on nights like this.” Nautica chewed her lip. “He's a bit like Minimus in that respect, really. One of the quiet ones.” 

 

“The ones who like staying home, over dancing where everyone can see them.” 

 

The femme nodded. “You'd be surprised how many people here are like that - and how few of the others notice that  _ they're _ not necessarily the norm. Fewer and fewer people have been coming to these things. They get tired.” 

 

“Which ones?” Tailgate asked. “The parties, or the people?” 

 

Nautica's only reply was a wry smile and a shrug. 

 

Tailgate took advantage of the petered-out conversation to finish his last little lavender sweet. He barely registered Nautica's soft exclamation of surprise about something - which meant it was a surprise to  _ him _ when a cautious servo rested itself on his forearm. 

 

“Is that from an injury?” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

The mini froze, morsel still clasped in his fingers and halfway to his fuel intake. Nautica immediately recoiled, looking abashed, but her optics stayed fixed on his face. 

 

“I only meant - oh, Pit, that was really rude, wasn't it?” She finally dropped her gaze, ducking her chin almost to her chest. “I, well. I couldn't help noticing… your mouth. Were you injured in the field? Because I'm sure Velocity could repair that for you.” 

 

“My mouth… ?” Tailgate covered his intake with his free hand, CPU whirring at an alarming rate. All too quickly, it flagged up a glaring discrepancy: the mecha of Upper Tetrahex didn't  _ have _ intakes. A basic fuel processor like Tailgate’s was reserved for the menial workers - the ones who bore scuffs and weld marks and labels proclaiming their professions, no matter how much of a glamour they layered over such things. The Upper Tetrahexians had smiles. Tailgate had a rudimentary port and a mask.

 

It was a blatant tell, and Tailgate was only puzzled, now, that nobody had brought it up before. But what had Nautica said, about injuries… ?

 

“Oh - oh, yeah,” the minibot stammered, with an unconvincing laugh. “One of my last jobs literally blew up in my face. We were offworld, so they couldn't rebuild everything properly - and then I fell down here.” 

 

Nautica, thankfully, seemed too relieved that her own gaffe had been forgiven, to notice Tailgate's. Her grimace of sympathy was a little exaggerated. “You know, Lotty could fix it if you wanted. Or if not her, ask Ratchet, or First Aid; you could even make an appointment tonight!” 

 

“I think I'll leave it,” Tailgate decided. “I kept what's left of my arm label. They can be reminders of home.” 

 

“You'll have to tell us the story behind that injury sometime,” said Nautica, grinning. “Everyone loves a hero - but they love a hero who nearly fails and then heroically succeeds again even more.” 

 

“I wouldn't call it a  _ near _ failure.” 

 

Even as Nautica laughed, Tailgate was running a subroutine in the back of his processor to try and think up a plausible - yet sufficiently exciting - backstory for his ‘scar’. What he found odd was that Getaway, the mech with him most often when refuelling before now, had never so much as glanced askance at his intake. 

 

Perhaps Getaway just wasn't as perceptive as Nautica. 

 

Having the speedster and the librarian together in one thought nudged a germ of an idea into Tailgate's brain. “Hey - Nautica?” 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“I just thought. That  _ Sacred Cybertron _ book, or whatever it was, the one I found in the library... do you think I could borrow it?” 

 

Perhaps Getaway had already done his own research, but it couldn't hurt to try and find the other mech some reading material.

  
“I don't see why not,” Nautica said. “But I guess I should warn you... I had a proper look at it, and it's not  _ exactly _ a geography book. It's a bit basic. Just a collection of myths about different cities; probably written for sparklings, if you ask me.”   
  


Ah. Getaway would probably just be insulted if Tailgate tried to give him that. “Never mind, then.” 

 

There was a lull in the hum of conversation from the centre of the room, as a third tune struck up - slower, this time, but sweet. That was more Tailgate’s speed. Excusing himself, he left the bench in search of Pipes - and maybe Drift, after that, he mused to himself; having witnessed the way Drift was treated on all sides down here, Tailgate reckoned he could probably use another friend. 

 

He’d definitely seen Drift in the crowd when he first arrived, but since then the white mech appeared to have made himself scarce. Perhaps later, he could find Swerve… 

 

“Tailgate!” Mirage materialised, seemingly from nowhere, on the edge of the dance floor; reaching out to almost - but not quite - graze the tips of graceful digits against the minibot's shoulder. In his other servo he held a narrow glass, so thinly blown that it looked as though it might shatter if he so much as twitched a finger. 

 

“Where on Cybertron have you been hiding? After that display when you opened the ball, I'm sure half the room would have been queuing up for your hand. Or Getaway’s, I suppose.” 

 

“Better Getaway than me,” Tailgate replied, aiming for a joke and feeling as though he'd not quite stuck the landing. Mirage made him a little nervous - he, more than almost anyone else, seemed to inhabit a completely different world to Tailgate’s. 

 

“Oh? Is dancing not so much your thing?” 

 

“Not when everyone's watching.” That ought to be enough excuse, if Mirage’s compliment had truthfully been the sort of veiled insult that Tailgate was accustomed to, from his social superiors. “I thought other people might join in, but in the end it was all just a bit… exposed.” 

 

“Well, that is what happens when you  _ officially _ open a ball. We stopped being so formal as a rule a while ago, but Getaway put the word out specifically - it was to be just you and he, for the first dance. I assumed you knew.” 

 

“Oh.” Tailgate couldn't have stopped his voice from sounding small if he'd tried. 

 

“Still,” said Mirage breezily, “it may have been a baptism of fire, but you've found your feet now.” 

 

Mirage of all mecha making a pun ought to have startled Tailgate into laughter; were he not too caught up in the realisation that apparently, Getaway had  _ engineered _ the discomfort of dancing in front of the entire assembly. It could easily have been a mistake, but if so why would Getaway go to such pains to organise everything, and not breathe a word to Tailgate? Why had he not backed down, and changed tack, once Tailgate admitted his inexperience? 

 

The minibot shook himself, as he watched Mirage glide away to talk to the flame-headed femme, both of them light of laugh and of foot, and blazing bright. 

 

Getaway was like  _ them _ , not like Cyclonus - what could one of Upper Tetrahex's inner social circle have to hide? 

 

It was the quiet ones, as Nautica had called them, who held the demons and the struggles and the resentments; the overly-cautious nitromoths with enough sense to avoid the bright places, lest the chandeliers and sconces throw them into much-too-sharp relief. 

 

And if Tailgate was, in reality, one of their number, and simply too stupid to avoid the ballroom’s open flame… well, that didn't speak for anyone else. Lug and Anode and Ambulon and this Minimus person had tucked themselves away in dark corners, and Tailgate probably would've done the same if circumstances hadn't forced him out into everyone's view. 

 

There were a couple of other mecha, though, who were in a similar boat to himself. If he was, as Nautica had claimed, the guest of honour, then Tailgate intended to do his best to keep those mecha from floundering. 

 

He spun on his heel purposefully, scanning the room for Pipes - catching, as he did so, a trick of the light over by the cavern entrance, as though a seam of dark gems was growing along a jut in the rocky wall.

 

 

* * *

 

This was becoming a dangerous habit of Cyclonus’ - lingering far too long to watch the festivities, and allowing his thoughts to carry him to distant places, with no mind for the scene that would arise were he to be discovered. 

 

Tonight, it'd taken Jackpot and Mainframe stumbling past, tipsy and giggling and mere feet from his hiding place, to snap him out of his reverie. It was another few seconds before he could collect himself enough to think about leaving; he was too caught up in the realisation that he'd expended most of his processing power, over the course of the night, on the actions of a clumsy  _ minibot _ . 

 

In his defence, Tailgate had behaved rather unexpectedly. 

 

After ruling out possible subterfuge, Cyclonus had thought he had the mini and his aspirations pinned down: a lonely, lowly mech thoroughly in awe of the world he'd accidentally uncovered, and willing to go to great lengths to obtain the admiration of its inhabitants. The Tailgate that Cyclonus had understood was willing to lie about something he possessed only the most rudimentary knowledge of, in order to impress a few noblemechs, with no thought for the fact that in the process he was endangering their arrangement. 

 

Tailgate had appeared this way in his mind, and in his mind Cyclonus had resented the mini; had thought him foolish and weak and annoying, even pathetic. 

 

But then Tailgate had danced with Drift. 

 

If Cyclonus was being honest it had begun before then, when the minibot had appeared on the stairs - except that Tailgate had immediately fallen adoringly into the arms of one of the flashiest, most preening mecha in the room. That had been enough to give Cyclonus pause again, wondering if his initial, harsher assessment would indeed prove the accurate one; Getaway, after all, belonged to the crowd of delegates and nobles who poured honeyed, empty compliments in each other's ears, barbing their flattery like poisoned arrowheads behind each other's backs. If Tailgate was truly throwing his lot in with them, then perhaps he was willing to become just as shallow for the sake of a few favours. 

 

However, he had quickly and unknowingly proved Cyclonus quite wrong. Though snatches of discussion that reached the edges of the ballroom had indicated that Tailgate’s company was in high demand, when the minibot finally reappeared out of the press of the crowd, it was with  _ Pipes _ on his arm. 

 

Pipes, whose sole reason for being in Upper Tetrahex was that he'd ducked onto the bridge - just inside the upper city's acid-proof shields - to stay out of a sudden storm. 

 

It was doubtful whether Tailgate knew that bit of trivia, but likely that his shiny new friends had not gone out of their way to introduce the two minibots. Their appearance together had certainly caused a stir; Cyclonus wondered if some of the mecha in the room had even remembered Pipes existed, before he popped up hand-in-hand with the guest of honour. 

 

Pipes certainly hadn't seemed to mind the attention - which was probably mostly to do with the starstruck red visor that'd stayed fixed on Tailgate, all throughout their dance. 

 

If the other guests had been surprised to see Tailgate with Pipes, they'd been positively scandalised when the blue and white mini had gone hurrying off to fetch Drift. Rodimus had long since left his plus-one stranded, as was his wont when some shiny new distraction pulled him away from his good intentions; last Cyclonus had seen Drift, he'd been hovering like an uncertain ghost near the door into the entrance hall, and that had been at least half an hour prior to Tailgate's search. 

 

Somehow, though, the minibot managed to track Drift down. It had been hard to say who'd looked more nervous between the two partners, as they ventured out onto the dance floor - but Tailgate had vanished for a good few minutes, and there was the air of some secretly-spoken pact in the way they each held themselves. 

 

The entire spectacle that Cyclonus had witnessed was completely at odds with his expectations for the night. Tailgate had danced with Swerve after Drift, and Nautica after Swerve, and largely ignored Mirage and Perceptor and other such mecha of their calibre - save for the ball’s closing number, which was spent slowly circling the floor in Getaway’s hold once again. 

 

Cyclonus found himself puzzling over what made Getaway so different from Mirage and Perceptor. 

 

That was where his mind halted in the present, shaking off the last vestiges of contemplation, as he cast around for a way to slip out of the ballroom unnoticed. It was sure to prove difficult: guests who had worn out their feet and their charm early were already starting to trickle away, though mostly through to the entrance hall. There was a small blessing in that only those who lingered the longest took the scenic route home. 

 

But the final dance was drawing to a close, which meant Cyclonus still had to act quickly. The slow, dreamlike melody spiralled up to its breaking point one last time, and he took advantage of the remaining few dancers drawing all watching eyes, as the leads lifted their partners. He slipped around his rocky outcrop, and off into the dark of the gardens, sparing only the briefest glance over his shoulder as he went. 

 

Tailgate, in the centre of the floor, seemed set alight as Getaway raised him closer to the chandeliers; holofabric and body paint suffused with a liquid lustre. 

 

Cyclonus was no longer certain that was what the minibot wanted: to be the perfect, golden hero loved by all. His choice of partners had spoken as much of empathy as of loneliness -  _ friendly _ fit him better than lonely, and  _ kind _ even more so. 

 

To the deserving, at least.

 

There was no time to flee in earnest; he'd surely be overtaken, and certainly spotted, by anyone seeking a stroll between the crystals. 

 

(In the back of his mind was the quiet notion that he had already been seen tonight - and by Tailgate, no less. The minibot's gaze had lingered upon his hiding-place for perhaps a few seconds longer than was natural, earlier in the evening). 

 

Duly cautious, Cyclonus stepped down onto the leftmost path through the gardens, then off it again just as quickly. He ensconced himself in a likely-looking patch of shadow between two tall crystal growths - confident, now, that the Upper Tetrahexians would go contentedly to their berths for another night, believing that the mech who was the source of their general misery had never intruded upon their happiness. 

 

A handful of late-goers tripped past in ones and twos, and Cyclonus watched them laugh. 

 

The end of the night was the only time people ventured out here, anymore. At one time, the gardens would have teemed with as much life as the ballroom on a night like this - and while Cyclonus was grateful for the ease of hiding himself, he couldn't suppress a stab of loss as he took in the darkness around him. It was a tired sort of thing: not yet deep and slumbering, but strung out and full of a profound exhaustion. 

 

It had been like that for a while, now. 

 

Before the sinking, things had been different. Cyclonus might not have indulged in the revelry himself, but the image of the palace bathed in warm, drowsy sunset stuck as firmly in his mind as Nightbird's teachings. It had become a well-worn memory, as the years of darkness trudged on. 

 

The ballroom’s outer wall was once a lattice of thick glass panes, with jagged shafts of golden light slicing through, to be softened by the ballroom’s silver interior. It had been a relic from the height of the Clavis Aurea’s influence, and on either side of the vast doorway rose depictions of the gods Epistemus and Solomus, stained in shades to match the fading sun. 

 

The lovers of the Guiding Hand (for truly, intellect ran wild and dangerous without wisdom to counsel it, and wisdom would be nothing but for intellect seeking learning and experience), they stood with heads turned towards each other and arms outstretched - not in some grandiose, symbolic gesture, but more quietly. Epistemus’ servo rose until it brushed the edge of the doorway; Solomus’ mirrored the position on the other side. They might have been about to link hands and amble down to the oil reservoir visible through the glass between them, beneath the slope of the crystal gardens and behind the soaring Spires. 

 

Perhaps, along the way, the two would discuss when next to invite Adaptus over, to share a bottle of engex. 

 

Cyclonus had never worried about such musings being blasphemous - the library contained essay upon essay picking apart this one simple window design. Some scholars of yore agreed with him: that it was a tribute to a union between the two deities as individual figures, rather than figureheads, with the intimate gesture symbolising the harmony that could be achieved when their two spheres of influence were perfectly balanced. Others  _ did _ decry that as blasphemy, and claimed that Solomus and Epistemus stood as mighty pillars framing the city, gesturing out towards their shared domain. 

 

Those in the latter category tended not to belong to the Clavis Aurea. 

 

Even regardless of personal loyalties, Cyclonus had preferred his forebears’ interpretation from the moment he'd first been handed a datapad about it by Glyph. (He'd asked the librarian for something rather less reverent than the usual scriptures; in part hoping to scandalise Scourge, whose House had been rigidly adherent to traditional Primalism). Giving the gods a level of personification, instead of regarding them as utterly omniscient and infallible, spoke more closely to his own, spark-deep beliefs. 

 

He'd known, even then, that a perfect god would never have stopped up Nightbird's voice. For two of them to have decided on it - and for Primus to have condoned it, being part of them both - only intensified the crime. Nightbird had been sharp-minded and fiercely protective and full of strength; no misstep of hers could ever have merited such punishment. 

 

Neither had Cyclonus’ Amica deserved what had happened in Iacon, yet still it had been permitted by the higher powers. 

 

After all, Tetrahex was supposed to be the sanctuary of the Clavis Aurea - and personally, Cyclonus counted those who had never formally converted amongst that group. The reverse of the image on the glass wall, viewed from outside, showed Solomus and Epistemus forming a sheltering embrace in front of the ballroom, shielding those within from danger that crept past the city borders. 

 

That image was gone now; no longer needed when the borders comprised solid rock. But… if Cyclonus stepped back out onto the path, he could almost see it rising above him again, the glare of a nearby lamp serving as a crude imitation of light hitting the window… 

 

There was a startled scrabbling noise behind a nearby stalagmite, followed by the beat of rapidly retreating footsteps. Cyclonus kept his gaze fixed ahead, and pretended not to have heard. 

 

* * *

 

_ “Would you care to explain that earlier outburst in the entrance hall?”  _

 

_ “Dunno. Are you gonna explain why you never told me we _ shouldn't actually be amicae? _ ”  _

 

_ Cyclonus blinked, wholly taken aback. “What? Who told you that?”  _

 

_ “Who d’you think?  _ Scourge _.”  _

 

_ With a heavy sigh, the purple mech dropped to the ground beside his friend, draping one arm over a bent knee. “Scourge can be cruel when he feels trapped.”  _

 

_ “Why in the Pit would he feel trapped? Smug bastard’s got all he ever wanted - he's about to be friends with the Lord of Tetrahex. Not that Nightbird wasn't his friend, but…  _ ugh _. You know what I mean.”  _

 

_ “As he sees it, that status boost comes with a price. I've tried telling him he doesn't have to stay, but he's also annoyingly  _ proper _ about the worst things.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus frowned, screwing his optics almost shut as his gaze travelled up the hill. A short way away, the stained glass of the ballroom shone fierce with waning sunlight. His Amica had chosen a fine spot for a sulk: so long as neither of them stood up, nobody passing by would ever guess the pair could be sitting here, encircled in a towering jut of green and blue crystals.  _

 

_ “What exactly did he say to you? You were shouting about having to stay in Tetrahex, but that can't have been it; we already discussed that.”  _

 

_ (And Cyclonus would never be able to give words to the gratitude he felt, both to his Amica for choosing to remain, and to whichever of the Guiding Hand had watched over him during that exchange - helping him conceal, even on the brink of losing everything, just how much his spark had contracted with fear, upon hearing his friend’s misgivings).  _

 

_ (Perhaps it was always going to have been easy, but could anyone ever take that chance when something precious was at risk?) _

 

_ There was a huff as his Amica drew further in on himself, optics dimming until their light was almost lost in the glare from the setting sun. “He told me that you'd have to abandon me, basically. At first he was just going on about the no more trips offworld thing, but then he said” - a great, shuddering intake of breath, that Cyclonus studiously ignored - “he said there was some other guy, one of your ancestors or whatever you'd call ‘em. Ages ago. He took a conjunx from outside his social class and he was  _ punished _.”  _

 

_ And Scourge knew that between Cyclonus suffering for keeping his Amica around, and his Amica suffering for having to leave Cyclonus’ company - and protection - behind… well. The mech currently wrapped up in his own limbs on the floor of the crystal gardens would view that not as a choice, but a certainty.  _

 

_ A certainty, moreover, that could never be spoken, and would be better seen to by slowly alienating Cyclonus, until there were no painful consequences to blow up in one’s face. Arguments, and acting up, and avoidance, until the Lord of Tetrahex's former Amica was tossed out of the city and left to face all the demons that had been circling its walls, unable to pierce the sturdy shield that was effective diplomatic immunity.  _

 

_ That was, of course, thought Cyclonus bitterly, far more preferable to ever  _ talking _ about things. They really were a well-matched pair.  _

 

_ Scourge was clever, and - it had to be said - driven in his jealousy. But Cyclonus had learned as many people as he had scriptures under Nightbird's tutelage, and even if he struggled to articulate his findings, his Amica had long since been committed to memory.  _

 

_ He was already ruling a city in all but name, and the name would be his in a matter of weeks. Nightbird had impressed upon him that with such a weight hanging on the horizon, it had better be  _ him _ who started dealing with the nonsense that this friendship could conjure up. It was good practice, after all.  _

 

_ Thus, Cyclonus sat beside his Amica and talked. He couldn't say everything, but he  _ said _ that he couldn't say everything, and he gave up as much information as he was able to. Scourge had twisted the story he told to deliberately get under the other mech’s plating; it was an old legend, and nobody really knew the truth of it, and besides which they had been conjuges, not amicae. To be punished the way Scourge had implied it was a very specific thing, and choosing an amica that tradition disapproved of would not be the sort of crime to merit such action.  _

 

_ (He neglected to mention anything about Nightbird in that regard, thinking that she would not want her story told by somebody who barely half-knew it).  _

 

_ No, Cyclonus would not have to abandon his Amica to become Lord of Tetrahex. Yes, their days of travelling were at an end. He could not leave the city once he was sworn in - it was simply the level of devotion required of him, that he turn his focus away from the outside world and wholly onto his duties.  _

 

_ And his Amica was, quite frankly, an idiot, to assume that the only course of action was to bolt straight into the arms of those who would gleefully do him harm; not even stopping to consult Cyclonus, to ask whether he'd be willing to bear any theoretical price for the sake of their friendship. How, Cyclonus demanded, would  _ he _ have been expected to respond to that, if such plans had been executed?  _

 

_ There was silence between the crystals for a good long while. Dusk had crept past them and through the ballroom window, before Cyclonus’ Amica voiced a quiet, almost bewildered query about how one might convert to the Clavis Aurea.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More songs in this chapter! (Well, pieces of music, but still...)
> 
> Basically, this whole thing was influenced a lot by the 2015 remake of Cinderella, and that includes the music I listened to - Tailgate descending the staircase was HEAVILY inspired by Who Is She, and his and Getaway's first dance was written while listening to, perhaps predictably, La Valse de l'Amour. ;) 
> 
> Some newcomers should be showing up next chapter - people who Tailgate knows by name, but not yet by face. So even if your fave hasn't shown up in Upper Tetrahex yet, keep on keeping an eye out! They're likely to pop up eventually. :)


	11. X: Mean and Coarse and Unrefined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I promised answers of some sort this time around - and they are already written! - but I ended up having to split the chapter, so that'll be coming up next time instead. 
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy a new familiar face and some more intrigue. Or not. You might not - i was very much influenced by _early_ cygate when writing this bit...

The usual silence pervaded the next morning, all through the upper floors of the palace, and down to where the ballroom now lay dormant. 

 

However, for the first time, Tailgate failed to find it unsettling. 

 

It  _ was _ a little different today - having taken on a sleepy sort of lull, as though aware that most of the mecha here were still deep in recharge and thus softening itself accordingly around the edges. Tailgate could imagine that were the city still on the surface, the hallways would be striped with fat bands of mid-morning sunlight, and he would have been awoken by a cool turquoise glow through the dome above his berth. 

 

As it was, he had to make do with the usual vague grey murk. An especial nuisance today, since after the blaze of the party his optics had reset, losing the sensitivity they'd been picking up ever since he arrived down here. 

 

Which meant the line between space and wall kept blurring in the dim light. Tailgate was fast replacing all the scuffs he'd polished away for the ball. 

 

He was in half a mind to visit the library again, taking advantage of Nautica likely still being asleep to snoop around for anything that might help Getaway. Not that he thought the femme would turn him over to Cyclonus, or something - but it would be easier to look for things that he perhaps wasn't supposed to see, if he didn't have to explain what he was doing. 

 

Drift would hopefully also be deep in recharge. The ball was one thing, but he'd taken to hovering around Tailgate an awful lot the last few days, even when Rodimus wasn't nearby; the mini wasn't sure, yet, how correct his suspicions were, but if he  _ was _ being watched… 

 

Perhaps there was more truth to Getaway’s fears than Tailgate had initially given him credit for. 

 

Tailgate wasn't really surprised that he'd risen so much earlier than everyone else - for once, it gave him a reason to be glad of his designated function. Even without a chronometer, he found it hard to sleep for excessive periods of time, too accustomed still to crack-of-dawn shifts and consequences for missing them. Getaway had been startled awake, a couple of times, by comm. calls long before he was apparently used to rising. 

 

With time, Tailgate supposed that was another relic of his other life that might fade into the background, but for now it clung stubbornly to his CPU. 

 

The corridor where the guests lived was almost as dark as the one leading to Cyclonus’ quarters; the lamps at the entrance were dimmed to their lowest settings, leaving small puddles of deep gold among all the grey. Tailgate hesitated at the bottom of the short staircase leading up there, wondering if he ought to actually call on Getaway. This was about where they'd bid farewell last night - but Getaway had said he'd forgotten to speak to someone about an errand, and had hurried back downstairs, so Tailgate wasn't sure which door he even ought to knock at. 

 

Still, he could try comms, even if he would wake the other mech far too early. It would be easier to find useful things in the library if Getaway could explain what he was looking out for. 

 

That was all still a bit unclear - was he trying to find a way to get everyone back to the surface? He seemed to think he knew something about the weird goings-on, though for all Tailgate knew that could've just been a vague inkling, of little help.

 

Or was it something less virtuous? Could he be out for revenge against Cyclonus, for stranding everyone down here? If so, why hadn't he reached out to anyone else? It was clear that Cyclonus had no shortage of detractors in Upper Tetrahex, which should've given Getaway his pick of potential allies. Yet seemingly the only person he confided in was Tailgate - not any of the others who had been around to witness the events of the past firsthand. 

 

If that was the case, maybe he was just leery about who he could trust. 

 

Regardless of Getaway’s intentions, though, as Tailgate recalled the awkwardness following last night’s first dance, he made the decision to pass on by, and visit the library alone. He knew he might never muster the courage to confront the other mech about the incident, being so very aware of their differing statuses - even if Getaway wasn't. This private, one-sided defiance would have to be enough, for now. A punishment that Getaway wouldn't even know had been meted out. 

 

Tailgate turned to descend into the entrance hall - and froze, as a scuffle and a  _ crunch _ of metal on rock met his audials. 

 

“Let me  _ go _ , I was only looking” - 

 

“Quiet!” the second of two unfamiliar voices barked; if it wanted silence, it was going the wrong way about it. 

 

“You'll stay here until Lord Cyclonus arrives, at which point you will explain why you were attempting to break into a locked room in his palace.  _ Again _ .” 

 

“But that's easy - you locked the door, ergo it's interesting, and I want to see what's inside.” 

 

“I told you to be silent!” 

 

“Because if I'm not, the others will wake up and see you attacking m _ ff! _ ” 

 

The sounds that drifted towards Tailgate denoted further struggle, and he carefully unpeeled his hand from where it had clenched around the banister in shock. Silently, slowly, he ascended the stairs to the guest corridor, peering into the dim, warm space with a wide visor and a healthy dose of trepidation at what he might find. 

 

It took a moment to parse the tangle of blue and yellow limbs, not least because they all kept shifting about - but to the tune of a muffled, violent curse, the scene resolved itself as a brightly-coloured mech being crushed up against the wall, by a navy one with an odd facial insignia. 

 

Tailgate felt a brief, primal jolt of fear as he realised this was the guard he'd snuck past to find Cyclonus in his chapel. The mech had been intimidating enough back then, before this pointed display of aggression. 

 

_ Scourge _ . 

 

Scourge’s captive was still thrashing about, bucking his shoulders wildly and, it seemed, trying to bite at the forearm pressed across his mouth. 

 

“Be  _ still! _ ” Scourge hissed - before drawing back with a hastily stifled cry of pain. 

 

The other mech spat, clenching his fists, and turned as though to flee. Almost quicker than Tailgate could register, Scourge had a sword drawn and levelled at the intruder’s chest. 

 

“You've been warned about sneaking around, don't think I won't follow through on it!” 

 

“No need.” 

 

And Tailgate recognised  _ that _ voice, even if it only compounded his worry about being caught staring by this little party. In a sharp flash of light on crystal, Cyclonus stepped out of the gloom at the very end of the passage, arms folded as he regarded the apparent interloper with a scowl. 

 

“Nightbeat. You know you're not welcome here.” 

 

“I tell you what I  _ know _ ,” the blue and yellow mech hissed. “You're hiding things from us!” 

 

“That's not your concern.” Cyclonus’ tone suggested more that perhaps it  _ ought _ not be Nightbeat’s concern, if he wanted to walk away from this encounter un-impaled. 

 

“Like  _ Pit _ it isn't!” 

 

Apparently, Nightbeat was not too skilled at reading people's tone. 

 

“This is supposed to be, what, all a mistake? Terribly sorry, never meant to trap a whole city and a bunch of innocents miles underground? If you're so blameless, then what's with all the secrets? The locked doors, and the forbidden rooms, and the nobody's-to-go-near-the-old-judicial-district? You  _ did _ something out there, didn't you? Something nobody seems able to remember. Not even Minimus.” 

 

A dangerous expression passed over what little Tailgate could see of Cyclonus’ face. “Nightbeat, you will  _ hold your tongue _ , or you will regret it.” 

 

“And I'm starting to doubt we're remembering the sinking right, either. Maybe there was no theft, or weird security measures, or whatever else you say. Maybe it was you all along, and you  _ framed _ ”- 

 

With a snarl Cyclonus lunged forwards, hand flying to his back where Tailgate knew he sheathed his sword -

 

“CYCLONUS!” 

 

The expressions of all three mechs in the corridor mirrored the shock Tailgate felt at the shout - and that was before he realised that  _ he'd _ been the one who made it. He'd moved, too, quite without meaning to; coming to stand squarely at the top of the staircase with a servo outstretched. 

 

Which was redundant, now that Cyclonus had also frozen in place. Sheepishly, Tailgate lowered his arm. 

 

At the other end of the hall Cyclonus copied the gesture, slower than Tailgate; he stood for a moment with his arms hanging uselessly but his frame still coiled to spring, like a prowling cybercat caught off-guard and vulnerable. 

 

Then, his stymied rage exploded in a different direction - he stalked down the hall towards the minibot with a growl of his engine. Nightbeat and Scourge, still nonplussed, were motionless as they watched him go. 

 

Tailgate folded his arms and stood his ground. Nightbeat’s tirade was fresh in his mind, and although his spark was whirring at thrice its usual pace, awareness of how everyone perceived Cyclonus sat sturdy in the back of his CPU, right alongside the knowledge that  _ he _ was all but adored. 

 

Fury or no, Keykeeper or not, Cyclonus could not afford to threaten Tailgate the same way he and Scourge had been doing Nightbeat. Even without the risk of anyone else awakening, and coming to investigate the commotion.

 

Cyclonus seemed aware of this, too: he checked his stride as he drew closer, though his face grew ever stormier. 

 

“Do you make a habit,” he said as he reached Tailgate, “of being exactly where you should not? Or does this come naturally to you?” 

 

“I'd say I'm exactly where I  _ should _ be, if it stops you attacking your own citizens.” 

 

The heat in Tailgate’s voice was met with an arched eyebrow, and he huffed. “I tried not to believe them, you know that? Everyone who was talking about how awful you were, how you couldn't be trusted, and how I'd see that for myself sooner or later. I thought you deserved the benefit of the doubt.” 

 

Cyclonus’ optics flickered, infinitesimally, in surprise - then darkened with anger. 

 

“Do you think I need your sympathy?”

 

Tailgate shrugged far more nonchalantly than he felt, remembering the red crystal in Cyclonus’ quarters and the deal - though he wasn't sure the Keykeeper would even dare imprison him now. 

 

(He also had growing suspicions, based on the scene he’d just witnessed, about the validity of the charge against him, but no real idea of how to address that. Clearly, all this intimidation was happening for a reason). 

 

“I figured maybe you could use it, yeah,” he said, and was surprised himself by how sincerely he meant that, even in the face of what he'd just witnessed. “After a few million years without. And I try not to be judgemental, if I can help it.” 

 

“Yet you intrude upon matters that you have been progressing for  _ a few million years  _ without you.” 

 

Tailgate gave Cyclonus a flat look. “You were about to draw your sword on him.” 

 

The jet cursed, exasperated, and spun on his heel - only to be greeted by the sight of Scourge still holding Nightbeat at swordpoint, and both parties looking highly confused. 

 

“Let him go, Scourge,” said Cyclonus wearily, waving a dismissive hand. 

 

“But” - 

 

“If he’s fool enough to come back again, we can deal with him.” 

 

Nightbeat opened his mouth, looking as though he wanted to object to being talked about like he wasn't in the room. After a moment he seemed, wisely, to decide against it and ducked his head, hurrying up past Cyclonus and Tailgate and down the stairs into the entrance hall. 

 

Scourge finally sheathed his sword - the blade was curved, Tailgate noted, and it had no strange blue light in the hilt like Cyclonus’. “I take it you don't need me to deal with this one, either.” 

 

Tailgate barely even noticed the disrespect, so used to it was he; strangely, however, it caused Cyclonus’ scowl to intensify. 

 

“You're not needed, no.” 

 

With a scoff and a roll of his optics, Scourge meandered off after Nightbeat. Cyclonus made no comment on the rudeness towards himself - Tailgate rather suspected that Scourge was the only person in Upper Tetrahex who could get away with such an attitude towards its Lord. The altercation he'd just stumbled into was proof enough of Cyclonus’ short temper. 

 

Then again, he'd never objected to Tailgate’s often impertinent manner, and he was the only one who knew what Tailgate really was. 

 

… Couldn't hurt to be a little more impertinent, then. 

 

“You could’ve run Nightbeat through, couldn't you?” Tailgate asked, as Scourge’s footsteps echoed into the distance. “If I hadn't been there. D’you make a habit of nearly killing people with that thing?” 

 

Cyclonus side-eyed him. “It's a sword.” 

 

“Well, people who haven't done anything wrong, then, if you want to be picky. And don't tell me Nightbeat deserved to be threatened like that, because  _ I _ didn't deserve it when all I did was walk into your chapel.”  

 

He got only uncertain silence in reply, which was good; Cyclonus looked about as confused as he had when Tailgate first called out, and the longer he remained in that state of indecision, the longer Tailgate could keep talking. It was much easier to speak his mind with the Keykeeper off-balance like this, before he could regain his wits and start being all angry and imposing again. 

 

If ever there was a time to air grievances, it was now.

 

“Actually, come to think of it, Drift’s been following me, hasn’t he?” 

 

“You sought him out yourself at the ball.” 

 

“Okay, that was partly because I’ve seen the way you treat him - and that’s different! He was probably watching me and Nautica in the library for ages, he showed up my first day here and he’s been hovering around ever since. And apparently that’s just normal around here, for bots with swords to stalk about and threaten you if you step out of line?! What kind of city are you even running?”

 

“I don’t recall,” said Cyclonus, “you being quite this bold when we first made our agreement.”

 

“Yeah, because I was confused, and scared, and I was just a maintenance worker trying to square up to someone out of ancient fragging myth! And maybe I’m still just a maintenance worker, but you look me in the eye and tell me you could lock me up now without people asking questions.”

 

Cyclonus opened his mouth as though to retort, but paused and stayed silent; he looked wrong-footed now, not simply off-guard… and, more unsettlingly, his optics had drifted out of focus, calculating. Perhaps Tailgate shouldn’t have revealed so much of his hand, but it was too late to back out now.

 

“You’ll notice,” he added, folding his arms with a huff which he hoped disguised his fresh nerves. “That I charitably have not even touched on all the  _ really _ weird stuff, because I know I’ll only get a straight answer on that when an Insecticon inherits the Matrix. Pit, I didn’t even know there was something going on with the judicial district until Nightbeat mentioned it!”

 

“And for that, he will regret running his mouth.” 

 

“See, this is exactly what I -  _ hey! _ ” 

 

Cyclonus had pivoted, and was descending the stairs with a brisk yet heavy tread. Indignant enough to forget his misgivings, Tailgate hurried off in pursuit - he wasn’t even sure what he hoped to accomplish, yelling about a setup that’d become entrenched over millions of years, but damn it all, he was _ angry _ . 

 

He didn’t get angry often. He even acknowledged, in some small section of his brain, that he was expecting more compassion, more openness, from Cyclonus than the mech probably possessed to give. Yet he had chosen to believe in the Keykeeper; to question the account he’d been fed by Upper Tetrahex’s residents, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d be a hypocrite of the first order apart from anything else. 

 

Cyclonus hadn’t known about any of that. It still felt as though he’d thrown something back in Tailgate’s face.

 

… Maybe Tailgate was choosing to feel that way because to accept the situation meant accepting that he was a naive little fool. Regardless, it seemed he hadn’t learned his lesson, foolishly rushing in a fury after the mech who wielded absolute power in Upper Tetrahex, to say nothing of his very large, sharp sword. 

 

He expected Cyclonus to stomp off back to his own chambers, or perhaps head for his chapel downstairs; instead, the Keykeeper’s route took him back the way Tailgate had just come. 

 

_ Right _ back. By the time Tailgate’s fans had cooled him down enough to manage talking, Cyclonus was ascending the narrow staircase that wound round the outside of the library’s curved wall. 

 

“What d’you think you’re doing?” the mini gasped out, his voice terse from the exertion of running to catch up. “Those are  _ my _ quarters!” 

 

Cyclonus ignored him utterly, opening the little hidden door and slipping inside. 

 

When Tailgate finally reached his rooms, Cyclonus was standing just inside, holding a datapad. He thrust it at the minibot without preamble. 

 

“Read it.” 

 

“I - what?” Tailgate eyed the ‘pad, arms hanging uselessly as he stared. “No. why should I?”

 

Something in Cyclonus’ face twitched, as though he was resisting the urge to roll his optics. “You want answers, do you not? I’m offering them to you.” 

 

“How do I know they’re answers I can trust?”

 

“Because I’m not offering you the full story.”

 

Tailgate blinked. “I’m sorry? You’re still keeping secrets, and then you’re telling me that makes what you do say  _ more _ believable? What kind of messed-up logic is that? Getaway knows next to nothing, but he still”- 

 

“Who?”

 

“None of your business.” The minobot folded his arms. He would damn well keep some things of his own to himself, if Cyclonus wanted to be so evasive. 

 

He’d also prefer not to gain Getaway a watcher, too, and risk angering him in the process. 

 

“I’ll ask again,” he continued, partly in the hope of diverting Cyclonus’ attention. “Why the hell should I believe you more, if you admit you’re still keeping things from me?”

 

For a moment, Tailgate wondered if Cyclonus would simply turn and stalk back out of the room, or perhaps throw the datapad into a wall - his fingers shifted slightly against it. Instead, he released a great huff of air through his vents, optics dropping to the floor as though he might beseech Vector Sigma for help. 

 

“You’re a newcomer to this city. You’re from a time period unknown to any of us, and while I’ve come to doubt there’s any kind of ulterior motive to your prying - beyond sheer, idiotic curiosity - you are by your very nature untrustworthy.”

 

“ _ I’m _ untrustworthy? 

 

“There’s more here at stake than you realise!” Cyclonus snapped. “I am - was - a head of state; why in Primus’ name would I reveal things to a waste disposal worker that I, as you find so reprehensible, conceal from my own citizens?”

 

“Maybe because you made me  _ complicit _ in all of your bullscrap from the minute I woke up in hospital?” Tailgate was nearly shouting now, but he didn’t care anymore - not when Cyclonus had decided to bring his function into it. “Lemme tell you, parties and fancy dress aside, I’d still much rather be shovelling industrial slag than putting up with  _ yours _ .” 

 

“You fell down a hole in the ground, and ended up where you should not have,” said Cyclonus coldly. “That does not entitle you to anything. It would have been far less hassle for me had you perished somewhere in the tunnels.”

 

Tailgate froze - unsure how he was even supposed to respond to that. 

 

Cyclonus seemed to grow minutely uncomfortable as the silence dragged, though Tailgate wasn’t sure for what reason; whether he actually regretted his words, or whether he was simply awaiting some sort of dismissal. Tailgate hoped that the Keykeeper would just stalk off as he’d done before, but of course, that would have been as good as an admission of error, and simply unbecoming in the presence of a waste disposal worker. 

 

His claws were still clenched around the datapad. 

 

“Well,” Tailgate said finally, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.” 

 

His servo trembled as he lifted it to snatch the ‘pad from Cyclonus’ grip - but he prided himself on not glancing back at the jet once, until his berthroom door shut behind him. 

 

* * *

 

_ “Holy slag. Ho-ly  _ slag _. I can’t believe you just did that.” _

 

_ “I didn’t ‘just’ do anything. I’ve been scrubbing this floor for the past three hours, and I doubt that’s what you’re referring to.”  _

 

_ “You know it’s not. Primus’ rusty valve seal, mech, you’ve still got the bloodstains!” _

 

_ Cyclonus’ servo immediately flew to his horn, rubbing at the base irritably, and his (unwanted) observer snickered. When his hand came away free from any trace of energon, he finally glanced upwards with a glare.  _

 

_ “Why have you latched onto _ me _ to torment?”  _

 

_ “Dunno - why do  _ you _ get riled up so easy? It’s fun to mess with you ‘cause I’m guaranteed a reaction, dumbaft.” _

 

_ “I’m sure there are plenty of others here who would give you just as much of a ‘reaction’, yet you still chose me.” _

 

_ “Okay, you really need to work on your delivery, cause I can’t tell if that was supposed to be a euphemism or not. And if it was - ew, you are definitely not my type, just putting it out there.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus growled and ducked his head, devoting a few seconds to vigorous scrubbing of a particularly stubborn mark on the floor.  _

 

_ “If you’re not going to say anything that makes sense, get out. I have a job to do, and I won’t hesitate to remove you.” _

 

_ “Pfft, yeah, I know you won’t. Star Saber’s proof of that. What’d he  _ say _ to you, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed - love me a bit of creativity in a fight - but when you snap, you  _ really _ snap.” _

 

_ The intruder slid down the wall, coming to sit in a spot Cyclonus had just cleaned. For a moment, Cyclonus debated whether he  _ should _ just kick him out - but that would only cause more trouble for himself, and worse, give his uninvited guest exactly what he wanted.  _

 

_ “Star Saber insulted my faith,” he said, instead.  _

 

_ There was a loud, disbelieving splutter from the other mech’s direction. Cyclonus tried to put his mind back to his task.  _

 

_ “He  _ what _?! You’re kidding!  _ That’s _ what made you go all gladiator on him?”  _

 

_ “Evidently.”  _

 

_ “Jeez, I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who buys into all that divinely-appointed function crap.” _

 

_ There was something more than a little accustory in the mech’s tone.  _

 

_ “I don’t.” _

 

_ “Then why get into it with Star Saber? That’s dissension, that is, if he’s the one who does buy into it - and that’s enough to get you in deep slag on its own.  _ Before _ you went and attacked the heir to one of Iacon’s oldest Houses.”  _

 

_ Really, Cyclonus didn’t feel that there was anything more to be said, after such a succinct summary.  _

 

_ Escalating things with Star Saber  _ had _ been horribly foolish, but if Cyclonus had developed any sort of code so far in his life, it was one with distinct boundaries. He liked to think that the nature of his faith left him open to hearing different theological standpoints - yet for all such noble ideals, he was also all too aware that he possessed a temper wholly unbecoming in a Keykeeper, particularly compared to Nightbird’s shining, sensible example.The implication that the Clavis Aurea was a cult of dangerous heretics was simply a line he would not tolerate being crossed.  _

 

_ Besides, his presence at the Flight Academy was an act of defiance in the first place.  _

 

_ Cyclonus imparted none of this to his acquaintance, however, and for a short time the only sound in the room was the rasp of wire bristles against wet metal. He hoped to be finished with the mess hall by the end of shift, or he’d have to deal with obnoxious, jeering soldiers when he came to clean the barracks later.  _

 

_ They  _ were _ soldiers, not trainees, even if nobody else realised it. While Cyclonus wasn’t opposed to occupying that post in an abstract sense, he worried deeply about what, exactly, they would all be set upon to fight.  _

 

_ “So if  _ I _ insulted your faith, would you beat me up?” _

 

_ “What?” Cyclonus snapped.  _

 

_ “Just trying to figure out if it’s, y’know, a universal thing, or if you already hated Star Saber because he’s a twee, sanctimonious prick.”  _

 

_ “You know, there’s a phenomenon called ‘projecting’”-  _

 

_ “Also, like, what do I have to do to get in a fight with you? Where’s the line?” _

 

_ “Keep going on your current course, and you’re sure to cross it.”  _

 

_ “You know what, better idea!” The other mech clapped his hands together, and Cyclonus suppressed a groan. “Why not just fight me, here and now, no provocation needed? Cut out the middle mech, so to speak.” _

 

_ “... Do you have some kind of a”- except that no, Cyclonus was not going to finish that question, because he did not want to know. He could at least take comfort in the fact that even if the answer was  _ yes _ , the mech had already stated that Cyclonus was not his ‘type’.  _

 

_ “Some kind of a what, now?” _

 

_ “Nevermind. I have no interest in fighting, in any case. Another incident would see me kicked out of the Academy.” _

 

_ “Uh, yeah, that’s kind of the  _ point _. We fight, we get yelled at, we both get chucked out and go back to our regular lives. Would’ve thought that’s what you’d want, with the taboo religiosity thing.”  _

 

_ It  _ was _ what Cyclonus wanted - for all that his life in Tetrahex had felt stale at times, the one he lived now was the opposite of what he’d hoped to find beyond his city’s walls. And yet-  _

 

_ “I can’t do that. I’m needed here - besides, if I was going to be sent home, don’t you think it would have happened already?” _

 

_ “What, are you saying someone wants you to stay here?” _

 

_ “Yes.” Cyclonus sighed. “I’m not just some religious dissident. I’m the Tetrahexian Acolyte. I  _ represent _ the religious dissidence there, and the Functionists want me under their thumb.”  _

 

_ For that reason, Cyclonus did have regrets about his choice to stay, but they were few. Let the Functionists try and harm him, while he sat in the heart of Iacon on a personally-issued summons. They held a frightening amount of sway over public perception, but they were not yet untouchable.  _

 

_ The other mech blinked. “Wait, hold on. You know you’re being kept here for shady reasons, and you don’t want out?” _

 

_ “I can’t leave Scourge.” An enquiring head tilt. “The blue mech I’m bunked with in our quarters. As long as I’m around, the Functionists have to keep their distance, or explain why they’re hassling the heir to the city of Tetrahex. If I leave… well. Scourge learned a lot whilst staying with me, and he’s only a younger scion of a minor Vosnian House. It’s possible that I and my mentor are the only ones who would miss him.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus’ companion whistled.  _

 

_ “And I thought I had it rough just being enlisted.”  _

 

_ “I imagine you still do. Nobody should be here - I don’t like to think what the Functionists could want with all of us.”  _

 

_ Cyclonus resumed his work, accompanied this time by the thoughtful drum of fingers against a freshly-polished floor.  _

 

_ “... Listen, d’you want some help with that? If you’re trying to keep an eye on this Scourge mech, then being distracted isn’t ideal.”  _

 

_ “I can mange. It’s not as though I haven’t had practice, I’ll be finished soon enough.” Cyclonus hesitated, keeping his optics fixed on the floor. “But… thank you. I appreciate the offer.”  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that last part was kinda "Drop dead Tailgate" and "I think you're pathetic" rolled into one, huh? : D


End file.
